The Secrets We Left Behind (36 page)

Darkness is taking hold by the time I go through the gates to the park. I’m glad I brought the car or I’d never have made it before the light goes completely, and if
I miss them today, it’ll be another week before I can be sure of seeing them again. The irony is painful – most grandmas are at least ten years older than I am, and when Toby was born,
I felt grateful that I’d have the energy to do lots of things with them both. But now this is all I have. I park the car and hurry down through the woods towards the play area. Usually, I
love being around trees at this time of year; I’ve always enjoyed autumn’s display of reds and golds but nature’s beauty seems almost painful to me now. In my haste, I trip over a
tree root and stumble, but I manage to right myself. Seconds later, I slip on some wet leaves and have to grab on to a branch to stop myself from falling. I should slow down, take more care –
I really can’t afford to break anything.

I walk down behind the café to where the stepping stones cross the stream, remembering to take off my scarf in case it makes me more visible. I can’t see them at first, and I spend
an anxious few minutes waiting, watching a little cat playing with the leaves and trying not to glance at my watch every ten seconds. But then I spot them: it’s chilly today, and Hannah is
wearing her long purple coat and the black-and-white woollen hat she knitted herself, and Toby is looking adorable in a new red duffle coat. He can sit up on his own easily now, and from where I
stand behind a dense cluster of trees and bushes, I can see that he’s squealing with laughter as she pushes him in the baby swing, but I’m not quite close enough to hear his little
voice. She is smiling, too; at long last, she is taking pleasure in her child, and this is the one thing that makes me happy. Well, as happy as it’s possible to be. She’s laughing now,
too, and I smile as I watch them together. This is as near as I dare be to them now. If Hannah spots me, as she did in the summer, she’ll strap Toby back into the buggy and hurry away, so I
must content myself with lingering in the shadows for the time being.

*

I can’t face going home just yet, so on the way back from the park, I drop in to see Estelle. She’s pleased to see me as always, and she’s smiling as she
ushers me into the sitting room. ‘I’ve just this minute made a pot of tea, so that’s fortuitous, and there are spare cups in the sideboard. Now, you look frozen, darling. Come and warm
yourself.’

Sitting here by the fire with Estelle I feel almost normal. I couldn’t have coped without Estelle; she has supported me unconditionally, right from the start.

‘I’m so glad you’ve called in,’ she says. ‘Young Marcus popped round on Sunday – I asked him to clear my gutters for me before the weather gets really bad. They were
completely blocked with leaves and moss. Anyway, we had a little conversation afterwards, and I managed to get some information out of him.’ She chuckles mischievously. ‘I’ve managed to
establish that your letters have not been thrown away. It’s not a lot, I know, but at least we know that much.’

‘Has she read—’

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t know. Marcus says she’s very secretive about it; takes them off and tucks them away somewhere, apparently. But he’s certain she’s kept
them all.’

I nod slowly. ‘That’s good to know; it’s . . . a comfort.’

Estelle looks at me with such fond sympathy that I’m afraid I might cry. Then she gets up
slowly and uses her stick to help her across the room to the sideboard, where she keeps the sherry.

*

When I arrive home, I prepare myself for the gauntlet of sadness I run each time I enter this house. The front garden was Duncan’s project when we moved in; he dug the
fish pond, laid the lawn and made the crazy-paved path. For our first anniversary, he bought me a sundial which stands on a plinth near the pond. I was touched because he’d clearly remembered
me telling him how I’d once lived in a rambling old house in Hastings and that I’d loved the old sundial we’d found in the garden. The one he gave me is engraved with the words:
Grow old with me, the best is yet to be
. I can hardly bear to look at it.

Once I’m inside, it gets even worse. On the walls in the hall are photographs of Hannah: there’s one of her dressed as a Christmas star in her first year at primary school; then one
where she’s about eight, with short hair and a missing front tooth; there’s Hannah and her friend Vicky looking dark and moody in their Goth phase; there she is at the surgery with
Duncan during her gap year, helping to hold a Jack Russell while Duncan examines its paw. Then there’s the graduation photo, the wedding pictures – a whole wall of Hannahs, smiling,
happy. Looking at them hurts, but taking them down would hurt more. I push open the door to the kitchen, and am confronted with the series of scores cut into the door frame where we measured her
height every birthday and recorded the year on the wall next to it. It’s funny, but I hadn’t noticed those marks for years, and yet now they seem to scream at me every single time I
walk past them.

I open the back door for Monty to go out into the garden – Duncan lets me have him for half the week now, although it’s been slightly longer this week because he suggested we drive
out to the moors on Sunday when he comes to collect him, maybe even stop somewhere for a drink on the way back. It’s a step on from coffee, I suppose, but I don’t want to get my hopes
up.

I fill the kettle for tea and open the fridge to see what there is for dinner. Nothing inspires me, and I can’t really be bothered, so I cut myself a chunk of cheese and put it on a plate
with a few oatcakes and a dollop of chutney. I nibble at the food as I empty the dishwasher. With just me here, I only need to run it every few days. When I’ve done that, I wander into the
sitting room and pick up the remote control. I find I watch a lot of telly these days. I’m flicking through the channels when the phone goes. I almost ignore it. ‘Hello,’ I answer
with a weary sigh, ready to say no, I don’t want to change my phone company, fuel provider or whatever. Silence; probably a bloody call centre. I’m about to hang up when I hear a throat
being cleared. The voice is quiet, hesitant, but it doesn’t sound angry. ‘Mum?’ she says. ‘It’s . . . it’s me.’

There are many people whose confidence in this book and unwavering belief in me as a writer have kept me going through difficult times. I am deeply grateful to them all. In
particular, I’d like to thank my wonderful editor Clare Hey for her editorial brilliance, her perceptive and insightful feedback, and her reassuring smile. I also want to thank my agent Kate
Shaw for her excellent editorial suggestions and for her support and encouragement which steadies me when I’m floundering. Massive thanks also to the fabulous team at Simon and Schuster for
pulling the whole thing together.

For their generous assistance and endless patience in the face of my questions regarding police procedure, forensic matters and the CPS, my thanks to Kevin Robinson, and to Gary Atkinson. Any
remaining errors are my own.

My research around Hastings in the 70s led me to
Bats in the Larder, Memories of a 1970s Childhood by the Sea,
a wonderful memoir by Jeremy Wells. My thanks to Jeremy for the lovely email
chats that helped to stir my own memories of Hastings and of the 1970s.

Writing can be a painful business when the words don’t come easily. I am incredibly lucky to have wonderful friends who understand, and who don’t mind me droning on about various
versions of the plot and about how hard it all is. For listening, and for sharing wine, coffee and cake, my thanks to Iona Gunning and Sue Hughes, and especially to James Russell for all the above
and for reading parts of the manuscript and convincing me not only that I could make it work, but that it was worth working on.

Finally, the greatest debt of all is to Francis, for so much; for everything.