The Secrets We Left Behind (3 page)

*

It was what had really sealed our relationship. I could never have made a life with someone who didn’t love my Hannah as his own. The first Christmas we spent together,
I’d been worried how a man who wasn’t used to children would cope with a seven-year-old waking him up at four in the morning to show him the presents he’d already seen and had
helped to wrap the night before. But he was enchanted, and he took the whole business very seriously, even suggesting we hire a Santa costume in case she woke up and saw me filling her
stocking.

On Christmas Eve, we found Hannah a pair of stretchy old boot-socks so she could hang one at the end of her bed while I smuggled the other into the living room. We stuffed the spare sock with
tiny gifts, chocolate coins, pink-and-white sugar mice, shiny pennies and a satsuma until it bulged and rustled tantalisingly, then we crept into her room together to swap it for its limp, empty
partner. ‘I love Christmas Eve,’ Duncan had whispered. ‘Do you remember waking up and feeling the weight of that knobbly stocking on your feet and thinking,
he’s
been!’
I did remember, but for me, those happy Christmases had come to an end too soon. ‘Hey, look at this.’ Duncan stooped to pick up an envelope that had slid off the bed
and onto the floor. ‘I didn’t know she’d written to Santa.’

‘Neither did I.’ We took the letter, along with the mince pie, the glass of sherry and the carrot for the reindeer, into the sitting room. All around the edge of the page, Hannah had
drawn bauble-bedecked Christmas trees, holly, and twinkling stars.
Dear Father Christmas, if you are real, please wake me up when you come to my house. If you do not wake me up, I will not
believe in you. Your friend Hannah Matthews. PS. I hope you are well and I hope you have a happy Christmas.
And then she’d added several lines of kisses. ‘Oh my God,’ I
laughed. ‘I can’t believe this – my daughter is blackmailing Father Christmas!’

Duncan smiled. ‘Clever! But do you notice, she hasn’t actually asked for anything, just wished him a happy Christmas.’ He put his arm round me and kissed me on the nose.
‘What a very nice, well-brought-up little girl.’

We had a lovely time that year. Duncan loved putting up the fairy lights, decorating the tree, and reading
The Night Before Christmas
to Hannah on Christmas Eve. ‘It’s like
being a kid again,’ he said. ‘It’s magical.’

‘It’s what a child’s Christmas should be.’

I still played Santa right up until Hannah went to university; it was a bit of a joke by then and it was one gift instead of a filled stocking, but I’d wanted to keep it magical for as
long as possible.

*

Hannah and Marcus were due to arrive at one, and by 12.30 almost everything was done and the house was filled with the fragrant smells of roasting turkey, herby stuffing and the
warm, spicy aroma of red cabbage. Duncan had lit the fire in the dining room and laid the table with a crisp white cloth, tall candles and proper napkins with napkin rings. While he was out the
front clearing snow and ice from the path, I cut a small sprig from the Christmas tree and slipped out into the garden, as I had done every Boxing Day for the last ten years.

I found the spot under the plum tree at the end of the garden, marked by a small wooden cross, only just visible now through the snow. I crouched down and brushed the snow away. This one had
almost made it; the last of my ghost babies. Thirteen weeks, a perfectly formed little boy, about two and a half inches long. None of the others held on past eight weeks, and I didn’t like to
think about what may have happened to their tiny bodies. I should have looked; I should have overcome my horror and put my hands down in the blood and found them, my babies that never were; then I
could have put them all out here under the plum tree and visited them whenever I needed to remember. This little cross would be surrounded by snowdrops in a few weeks’ time, but for today I
placed the sprig of pine in front of it. ‘Merry Christmas, sweetheart,’ I whispered.

The first eight weeks had been agonising; every time I felt a twinge I’d worry that it was happening again. But the weeks went on, I had regular scans and I felt good; we started to hope.
Once we passed the magic twelve-week point, we relaxed. We were so sure it was going to be okay this time that we even started to tell people and to hell with the comments. Yes, we were both in our
forties; no, we didn’t want to ‘enjoy our freedom’ now Hannah had left home. We still had a lot of love to give and we both wanted this child –
our
child –
desperately. But on Christmas afternoon, the pains started and I knew immediately. Hannah was there with Nick, her boyfriend at the time. She sent Nick away and she and Duncan spent the next few
days trying to be supportive, and trying not to cry. I wanted Hannah to go back to Leeds where she shared a house – a daughter shouldn’t have to see her mother in the midst of a
miscarriage. But she insisted on staying with me. Then only a few years later, it had been me trying not to cry through each of her miscarriages.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. I looked round, and Duncan was standing behind me. He pulled me gently to my feet and wrapped his arms around me. We stood there in the snowy garden holding on to
each other, not speaking.

Monty’s frenetic barking announced Hannah and Marcus’s arrival and they tumbled into the house in a bluster of bags and rucksacks and nappies and general baby
paraphernalia. Hannah looked shattered. Marcus carried a sleeping Toby, still strapped into his car seat, into the kitchen and placed him on the kitchen table. His little body jolted due to the
heightened startle reflex, and he opened his eyes briefly but then closed them again. Duncan enfolded Hannah in a big hug, then turned to Marcus and shook his hand. They got on well, Duncan and
Marcus, and I was glad. My family was so small that every now and then I was gripped by a sense of absolute terror that something might happen to destroy it. I looked at Toby’s red,
scrunched-up face and I marvelled at how clever Hannah had been to produce him. My grandson.

‘Right,’ Duncan said, rubbing his hands together and smiling. ‘How about a Christmas drink?’

‘Huh! I wish,’ Hannah said. ‘There’s a bottle of wine in that bag somewhere, but I suppose I’d better not have any. Any coffee going?’

‘Are you supposed to drink coffee?’ Marcus asked.

‘For God’s sake, it’s Christmas!’

‘But won’t it—’

‘One cup, Marcus.’ Her voice was unusually sharp.

Marcus put his hands up in mock defence. ‘Okay, okay.’ He grinned. ‘Sorry. The lady wants coffee, the lady gotta have coffee.’

I made the coffee with hot milk, just the way Hannah liked it. ‘So, how are you feeling?’ I asked after Duncan and Marcus had gone through to the dining room.

‘Totally and utterly knackered.’ She sighed and sat down, pushing the car seat away so she could lean on the table and rest her head in her hands.

‘It’ll get better, you know. The first few weeks really are the worst. Is Marcus pulling his weight?’

‘He’s doing more than his share, to be honest.’ She put her hands round the coffee and blew lightly on the surface. ‘He’s very good with him.’ She sounded a
little sad. Then Toby woke up and started to cry.

‘I’ll take him, you drink your coffee.’ I fumbled with the catch on the harness that kept him in his car seat. It seemed so much more complicated than the clips I
remembered.

‘Here.’ Hannah leant across, snapped the clasp open easily then sat back with a sigh as Toby’s cries increased in intensity. ‘He can’t be hungry again, surely? I
only fed him a couple of hours ago.’

‘Come on, sweetheart,’ I murmured as I lifted him from his chair and held his warm little body against my chest. He looked so sweet in his Christmas-red baby-grow and the navy
cardigan that Hannah knitted when she was pregnant. We had a hell of a job finding those ladybird buttons, but Hannah knew exactly what she wanted. She had such a good eye for that sort of thing.
‘He’s perfect,’ I said. ‘And so tiny and compact.’ I almost commented on how like Marcus he was, but something stopped me. ‘Shush.’ I swayed back and forth
with him as I walked around the kitchen trying to settle him. ‘Shush, my little pickle; let your poor mummy have her coffee. Shush-shush.’

‘Oh, shit.’ Hannah looked down. ‘I’m leaking again.’ She grabbed a wipe from the quilted bag next to her and started dabbing at two wet spots that had appeared on
her jumper. ‘This keeps happening when he cries.’ She held her arms out. ‘Better give him here.’ She lifted her jumper and held Toby in place until he seemed to sense or
smell her milk and started to root frantically for the nipple. Then, after several attempts, he latched on and Hannah winced.

‘Sore?’ I asked.

She bit her bottom lip as she nodded. ‘The health visitor said it was like breaking in a new pair of shoes, but either she’s never had a baby or she wears shoes made of broken
glass.’

I felt a flash of anger towards the health visitor. ‘That’s not very helpful, is it. Isn’t there any cream they can give you?’

She nodded. ‘But it doesn’t get much of a chance to work, does it? It’s like there’s no escape; he’s either clamped to my nipple or he’s crying and making me
leak so I couldn’t get away even if I wanted to.’

‘What do you—’

Hannah shook her head. ‘I don’t mean I really want to get away from him; just . . . well, he’s less than two weeks old and it’s as though he’s been here for ever.
He seems, I don’t know, so
determined
; it’s as if he knows what he wants and he knows how to get it, whether I like it or not.’ She looked up at me and smiled weakly.
‘I sound ungrateful, don’t I?’ She looked down at her son, whose eyes were now closed as he sucked blissfully, his tiny fingers curling and uncurling as they rested against her
breast. ‘I don’t mean to,’ she said quietly. ‘It’s what I wanted, after all. But I can’t even remember what it’s like to walk around without my arms aching
from carrying him, or to get into bed without holding my breath, waiting for him to start crying. ’

I looked at her again. My poor Hannah; she was pale, and there were deep, dark shadows in her face. And yet she’d looked so well while she was pregnant.

Despite having just been fed, Toby cried a lot while we were having lunch, so Marcus, Duncan and I all took turns walking around with him so that Hannah could eat. When we’d finished the
main course, I got up to clear the plates and Hannah followed me into the kitchen, loaded the plates into the dishwasher and then sat at the table while I found matches to flame the Christmas
pudding. She picked up the bottle of brandy and sighed. ‘I could really do with a large one of these right now.’ I got the impression she was only half joking when she added,
‘Perhaps it’d make him sleep a bit longer.’

‘Listen, how about if I come over again for a few days? Just to take the pressure off for a bit? I’m not at the Project again until after New Year, and I can easily . . .’

‘Thanks, Mum, but you’ve helped out enough already. Marcus still has another week’s paternity leave, and anyway, I need to get used to coping on my own at some
point.’

‘Yes, but there’s nothing wrong with having a little help, you know. Your body’s been through a major trauma, your hormones are all over the place and your routine’s
changed beyond recognition. It all takes a while to get used to.’

She appeared to think about it for a minute, then shook her head. ‘No, I need to . . . I’ll be fine. We’re still getting used to each other, I suppose. Come on, let’s go
and set this pud alight.’

We finally managed to settle Toby in his Moses basket and had just started eating when the phone rang. I noticed the almost fearful way Hannah glanced at Toby but mercifully, he stayed
asleep.

‘My mum,’ Duncan said. ‘Bound to be.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Earlier than usual, though.’

I smiled. ‘Give her my love.’ Estelle always called on Boxing Day. She went to her widowed sister for Christmas every year, then called us as soon as she got back to tell us how much
Gina waffled on about her grandchildren, how the colour of her hair was less and less convincing and how much Gina drank before, during and after Christmas dinner.

‘Hello, Merry Christmas!’ Duncan said cheerily into the handset. ‘Hello?’ he said again. ‘Hello?’ He looked at the phone and then said ‘Hello’
once more before shrugging and hanging up. ‘Probably a wrong number.’

‘Do 1471,’ I said. Hannah looked up sharply and I realised how anxious I sounded. ‘I mean, this is the second time, isn’t it?’

Duncan tapped out the numbers. ‘The caller withheld their number,’ he repeated, putting the handset back in the charger. ‘I’d better ring my mum, just in case.’ No
one spoke until we heard him talking to Estelle and explaining why he’d rung her rather than waiting for her to ring us as usual.

*

After lunch, I suggested Hannah and I go for a walk, leaving Duncan and Marcus to finish loading the dishwasher and make the kitchen look less like a bomb had hit it. Hannah put
her coat, woolly hat, scarf and mittens on and then she stood at the door with her hands in her pockets while I got my boots on. It was still quite snowy outside. Toby was beginning to stir; I
could hear him making little snuffling noises. ‘Aren’t you bringing the baby?’ I picked up my keys from the yellow ceramic bowl that Hannah made at school. Her ‘sunshine
bowl’, she called it.

‘What? Oh, yes, I suppose so.’ She took her coat off again, lifted him out of the Moses basket and laid him on the changing mat, then pulled a tiny coat from her bag and started
trying to feed his arms into the sleeves without much success. She was biting her lip.

I hesitated for a moment – I didn’t want her to think I was trying to take over, but she looked increasingly exasperated so I asked if she’d like some help.
‘Thanks,’ she sighed as she moved aside so I could get to him. ‘How on earth am I supposed to get him dressed if he keeps wriggling like this? It’s impossible.’

‘Try reaching into the sleeve from the other end rather than trying to push his arm all the way through. Like this.’ I bunched the sleeve up with both hands then gently reached
inside the cuff with my fingers and guided Toby’s hand through.