The Secrets We Left Behind (7 page)

‘I’m not quite dead yet.’

‘I didn’t mean that. I meant, look, I’ve made a good life for Hannah. Duncan has been a good father to her, and you . . . you said . . .’ I could feel my voice rising and
I had to make a conscious effort not to lose control, not to scream and shout and cry. ‘You said you wouldn’t do this. You swore you’d never contact us –
Tell her
I’m dead,
you said. The only reason I didn’t is because she’d have probably wanted to see your grave.’ A big boulder of pain rolled to the front of my head with a
thud.

‘I know.’ He spoke quietly, calmly. ‘But things are different now. When can we meet? Do you have a free day this week? Or an afternoon?’

‘No. I’m not meeting you. You have to go away; you have to leave me alone.’

‘Or what? You’ll call the police?’ There was a silence that felt full up, like swollen black clouds before a thunderstorm. ‘Jo.’ His voice was gentle, almost
tender. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not going to let this go.’

I was still hanging on to the carpet as though I might fall off the landing into thin air. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense him there on the other end of the line, waiting. After a
few more seconds of silence, I realised why he was waiting so patiently – it was because he knew there was nothing I could do; that I really didn’t have any choice. ‘All
right,’ I said, and as I spoke, I felt a sudden stab of vulnerability, as though I’d just unleashed something destructive and must now brace myself for the consequences. I took a breath
and tried to steady my voice. ‘I suppose I could meet you at lunchtime on Wednesday, or any time on Friday – I’m off work then, anyway.’

‘Friday’s cool. As long as you don’t have anything else to do in the afternoon, because I think you’re going to need some time to yourself afterwards. You’ll want
some time to think.’

‘Scott, I’m sorry you’re ill.’ I paused. He was only a few years older than me; early fifties at most. And the last time I’d seen him – well, apart from when
I saw him in town before Christmas – he’d looked so strong, so
alive.
‘I mean,’ I said more softly, ‘I really am sorry. But can’t you just tell me what
this is about?’

‘Not on the phone, not when your husband’s due back any minute. Trust me.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. All right. Make it Friday morning.’

‘Okay. And listen, we’d better swap mobile numbers – I’m guessing you’d rather keep this between us for the time being?’

My instinct was to refuse but on the other hand I didn’t want him calling the house again, so I gave him my number and wrote his on a Post-it note which I peeled off and put in my
pocket.

‘Cool. I’ll meet you at ten. There’s a church I go to sometimes—’

‘A church? Which—’

‘I’ll text you the address. See you at ten, and Jo, if you don’t turn up, well, as I say, I’m not letting this go. It’s in your interests to hear what I have to
say. See you there.’

And he rang off .

I found myself looking at the phone as if there was some answer hidden in there somewhere. Finally, I replaced it in its holder and walked carefully back into the bedroom. The
migraine was kicking in properly now, flashing lights and all. I sank down against the cool pillows and closed my eyes. It hurt to think, but my mind wouldn’t be still. What on earth could it
be that he couldn’t tell me on the phone? ‘Oh God,’ I murmured aloud, but the effort of making a sound called up another bombardment of pain, so I said it in my head:
Oh God oh
God oh God.
I raised myself up on one arm and shifted my body so that I could bury my face in the pillow but the pain sliced behind my eyes again. Just then I heard Duncan’s key in the
door, followed by the sound of Monty’s lead being hung up and then his claws on the kitchen floor as he trotted over to his water bowl. I heard Duncan coming softly up the stairs. He paused
at the bedroom door. I realised I was holding my breath. After a few seconds, he whispered, ‘Are you awake?’

For a moment, I considered pretending to be asleep, but then I raised my hand slowly and waved. Duncan came over and sat on the bed, gently pulling the duvet back so he could see my face.
‘How are you feeling?’ he said. ‘You still look rough.’

‘Awful,’ I whispered. ‘It’s a bad one.’

‘Right, you stay there. Can I bring you anything? Pills? Tea? Water?’

‘Water, please, and could you bring me the yellow pills.’

‘Oh dear. That bad?’ He kissed me on the top of the head, covered me up with the duvet again and went downstairs. For a moment, I was overcome with longing for my mother. Not as she
was at the end, but as she’d been when I was little and I had mumps or measles or something, and she’d sit by my bed, tucking the duvet around me, stroking my hair and making sure I was
comfortable. I sighed and closed my eyes again. I tried to empty my mind by picturing Scott and then drawing a black velvet curtain across the image so that there was nothing there but blackness.
But then I remembered it was Eve who taught me how to do that, so then of course I started thinking about him again.

*

On Thursday night, I couldn’t sleep. The shock of Scott’s call had faded a little, but now, knowing it was Friday tomorrow, it was all coming back. I’d been in
a state all day. This morning I took the toast out of the toaster and put it in the dishwasher instead of on a plate, and I was so distracted at work that the poor woman I was talking to actually
asked me if I was all right, when she was the one whose child had just been diagnosed with leukaemia. This evening, Duncan caught me checking out of the window to see if Scott was watching the
house. ‘What you looking at?’ he said, sliding his arm around my waist as he stood behind me. ‘Or are we being nosy neighbours?’

But there had been no sign and apart from sending the address of the church by text, he hadn’t been in touch again either. I looked at the numbers on the digital clock; it was almost two,
and the alarm was set for seven, so even if I went to sleep within the next half-hour . . . Oh, stop it, I told myself; watching the clock like this only made insomnia worse.

I kept wondering what would happen if I didn’t turn up, but then I remembered how desperate Scott had sounded and how he’d laboured the point that he wasn’t going to let this
go, whatever it was. As I lay there in the darkness, I kept turning it over in my mind. My first thought had been that he was going to demand to see Hannah, but if that was it, why wouldn’t
he have just said so? And would he bother to talk to me about it first anyway? He’d managed to find me easily enough, so I was sure he could find Hannah. Maybe he just wanted to know what
I’d told her about him? Duncan snored softly and turned onto his side, facing me. I tried to put Scott out of my head as I moved closer to Duncan and curled into his warmth. Duncan had always
made me feel safe. He slipped his arm around me without waking, and amazingly, I drifted into sleep.

In the morning, I felt calmer. Somehow, I’d managed to convince myself that I’d misunderstood, or misinterpreted, and that it was a simple matter of him wanting to leave Hannah
something in his will. He may not even want to see her. Perhaps he didn’t want to storm into my life and wreck everything after all. Bright winter sunshine streamed into the kitchen as I sat,
still in my dressing gown, drinking coffee, as Duncan got ready to leave for work. ‘What are you going to do with your day off, then?’ he said, after he kissed me goodbye.

‘I thought I’d go into town, have a wander round the shops.’ I did plan to do this while I was there, so I wasn’t lying. ‘And it’s a lovely day, so if
it’s not icy I might put Monty in the car and have a drive out to the moors for a walk.’

‘That’ll be nice,’ Duncan said, and I could see that he was thinking the same thing – the same thing we always say, that we should drive out there more often; to the
moors, to the hills; we live so close to the Peak District and yet we hardly ever take advantage of it. The last time we’d been out there together must have been months ago. In fact, it must
have been in the spring, because I remembered the moors had been covered with heather in various shades of pink, lilac and purple. We’d held hands as we stood looking at the view across the
valley. Monty was sniffing around in the undergrowth and the sun was beginning to set, casting a golden glow over the fields. ‘I know we always say this,’ Duncan said, and then I joined
in so we spoke in unison, ‘but we really should do this more often.’ We both laughed, and then I found myself thinking about a colleague whose husband had just died of a heart attack at
the age of forty-two. ‘Yes, we should make the most of every day, shouldn’t we?’ I’d said. ‘You never know what’s going to happen; when things are going to
change.’

And as I thought back to this now, I felt a ripple of apprehension. It was the same feeling I’d had just after my mum died; a sense that I had absolutely no control over what was about to
happen; that I was completely powerless, as though I’d been swept off the shore and was being carried out to sea.

Newquay, Cornwall, March 1976

Jo wiped her eyes with the scented tissue the ward sister had given her. ‘Is there someone we can ring for you, Joanna? Grandma, perhaps? Or an auntie or uncle?’ Jo shook
her head. It hadn’t occurred to her how small her family was until now. Her auntie Margaret had died of a burst appendix a week before she was born, and Granny Pawley, her mother’s
mother, had had a massive stroke just after Christmas last year. She hadn’t seen her father since she was ten and anyway, he’d moved to the other side of the world with his
girlfriend.

‘It’s a hard thing to cope with at your age,’ Sister said, parting Jo’s shoulder. ‘I lost both my parents when I wasn’t much older than you. It’ll get easier
with time.’

Jo nodded and thanked her for all she and the other nurses had done, then she picked up the small bag of her mother’s possessions and half ran out through the double doors and along the
corridors into the weak sunshine. People were parking in the hospital car park; how many would get back into their cars newly bereaved, remembering the previous visit’s complacent ‘See
you tomorrow’? On the bus home she was aware that her eyes were red and puffy from crying, so she picked up a newspaper someone had left on the seat and paid her fare without looking at the
conductor.
Wilson resigns,
the headline read. She stared at the pictures of Harold Wilson on the front page, but although she read the paragraph underneath twice, the words wouldn’t
register; it could have been in Greek for all she could take in. She tossed the paper onto the seat next to her and turned to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass and closing her
eyes for the rest of the journey.

She couldn’t face going straight home, so she went to the beach and headed down to the shoreline, where she knew the sound of the waves breaking on the sand would soothe her. She stood,
looking out across the slate-coloured ocean. The sun had gone in now; the sky was the same hue as the sea and the clouds were swollen, puffed up with rain. She didn’t move when the rain began
to fall, a few large drops at first, then more, falling at a slant, fast and sharp, like a million needles piercing the surface of the dark water. She unfolded the death certificate.
Chronic
liver failure,
it said; and
alcohol-induced hepatitis.
Her hands itched to rip it up, to pull it to pieces and throw it down onto the sand and stamp on it. But the sensible part of her
knew she’d need it to arrange the funeral, so she folded it again and shoved it back into the pocket of her parka before it got too wet.

Before her mum had become ill, they’d talked about moving, not just away from Newquay, but right out of Cornwall. It was great living near the sea, but this place didn’t have much
else going for it; it was dead all through the winter, and in summer it was swamped with tourists who spoke to you like you were scum. A few seagulls were standing around in the rain, looking as
though they didn’t quite know what they were supposed to be doing. Why didn’t they fly off ; they had wings, didn’t they? Stupid birds.

As she stood watching them, the realisation began to creep over her that she needed to make plans, think about what to do next. She could stay here in Newquay, or she could pack up the flat,
draw her savings out of her Post Office account and go somewhere different. It was her decision. Maybe she should try London; she’d heard it was easier to get a job there and the pay was
better, and it would be good to see what it was like to live somewhere other than this shithole. The possibilities tumbled around in her head, but she couldn’t seem to distinguish her
thoughts; she couldn’t think straight. Perhaps she should talk to her mum about it? But then she remembered.

It was late afternoon now and it was starting to get dark. She could feel the rain running down the back of her neck so she reached behind her and pulled the hood of her parka up over her head.
Her legs felt heavy as she trudged along the rain-dimpled sand, past clumps of black seaweed with shards of wood, plastic water bottles and other bits of rubbish tangled into it. She carried on
walking towards the wooden steps that led up onto the road. At the bottom of the steps she paused and took a few lungfuls of the clean sea air, noticing the salty taste of it, the sharp tangy
smell, then she looked back at the sea, shrouded now, and smothered in a grey blanket of rain. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her parka and headed up the steps, across the road and homewards
through the town.

The rain was hammering the pavements and the noise it made drowned out any other sound. Coming down in stair-rods, Granny Pawley would have said. People were hurrying, trying to get home from
work before they got too wet. Jo didn’t change her pace; she was wet now anyway. As she walked, she watched the pattern the rain made in the puddles, circles that appeared and disappeared;
bubbles that bloomed then popped. She kept her head down; she didn’t want any of the neighbours seeing her and asking after her mum. Not that anyone was likely to want to hang around and chat
in this weather, and come to think of it, people tended not to ask these days, anyway. Her mum had borrowed money and failed to return it too many times. The rain hit the pavements so hard it
bounced off again and created a mist which gusted along the black tarmac. Wide, rippling streams of water ran noisily along the gutters. It felt right somehow. It felt like an ending.