‘It’s what she hid from him. Before he moved her permanently upstairs, into here. Most of it won’t be worth anything to anyone else, but these are all that remained of her most precious possessions, so they’re priceless to me. I only braved a quick peek when I uncovered it; the pain was still too raw. Even knowing she felt compelled to hide this says everything. It broke my heart all over again.’
* * *
Riverbend
Harriet didn’t understand, at first. How could she, a twelve-year-old girl in 1979, with no one to explain it to her? Her mother was gravely ill, she knew that much. She lay there in bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, cracked lips twitching. Had she gone blind? Deaf? Because she didn’t seem to know anyone was there. Even when Harriet climbed up onto the bed, stroking the pale face, murmuring her name, before resorting to shaking limp shoulders, crying and begging her to answer, her mother never flinched.
‘Is it a stroke?’ she asked the doctor, through panicked breaths. Her friend Mary’s dad had suffered a stroke a few months ago. He’d forgotten how to talk and could barely move afterwards. Then he’d had another one and that was that. ‘Will she die?’
‘I need to speak to your father.’ The doctor peered down at her from where he towered in the doorway. This new doctor didn’t understand that speaking to Him was the last thing Verity – or Harriet – needed. Harriet wondered if she could get hold of Dr Parsons, who knew better.
‘He’s away. He left last night.’
Harriet couldn’t help wondering if he’d done something before he went. Did he poison her mother? Or hit her over the head and damage her brain? Should she have called the police, instead of this useless doctor?
‘When will he be back?’
She was about to answer honestly – even her father couldn’t have answered that question. But then she stopped, her survival skills kicking in.
‘He’ll be home in time for supper.’
‘Right. Good. Ask him to give me a ring, will you?’ He picked up his bag and looked as though he was about to leave. Harriet felt relieved and petrified at the same time.
‘But what about my mother? What’s wrong with her? Aren’t you going to help?’
He gave an impatient huff. ‘I’ll explain everything to your father.’
‘What am I supposed to do while I’m waiting? I need to know how to take care of her.’
‘I suggest you leave your mother be.’
And with a whirl of brown coat stinking of stale cigars, he was gone.
Of course, Harriet did not leave her mother be. She brought her tea, and when that went untouched, a bowl of soup. She patted Mother’s brow with a damp cloth, straightened her blankets, and lay beside her on the bed and read aloud.
There was one glimmer of hope that evening. As Harriet recited their favourite Emily Dickinson poem, a solitary tear trickled out of the corner of Mother’s eye and down her cheek. Harriet blotted it dry while ignoring her own. Mother was not dead inside her head; she could hear and understand. Whatever the matter, she was still her mother.
The following morning, when Harriet crept inside her mother’s bedroom, breath trapped behind her ribs, she saw that the blankets were rumpled and the water she’d left on the bedside table was now empty.
Rushing over, she expected to find her mother’s eyes clear, mouth curving in a smile, however weak.
But no. The empty, lifeless mother was still there. Vacant eyes. Hands limp and cold. Only the slow, unsteady rise and fall of the blanket proving that she hadn’t died.
Harriet wanted to stay and watch in case her mother moved again. Or stopped moving altogether. But she also didn’t want anyone finding out what had happened and taking her mother away. Or, worse, carting Harriet off to some children’s home because there surely wasn’t anyone else who would take her in.
So she ate breakfast, only realising as she buttered the toast that it had been nearly twenty-four hours since she’d eaten anything. She left another glass of water, a mug of tea and a sandwich by her mother’s bed, and spent the day at school, pretending everything was perfectly normal.
The phone was ringing as she arrived back home, the bus having dropped her off at the end of the drive. The doctor. Why hadn’t her father called?
‘He tried, but you were engaged,’ she said, her years living in survival mode allowing the lie to fly easily off her tongue. ‘He also tried again this morning.’
‘Can I speak to him now?’
‘He’s gone to fetch his sister so she can help take care of the house. And me. But I could give him a message if you like? I’ve got a pencil and paper here, so I can write it down.’
‘Tell him to telephone me as soon as he’s returned. Otherwise, I’ll call round in the morning.’
It was a risky move, and she wouldn’t have done it if she weren’t desperate, but she called back the surgery an hour later and adopted her gruffest, deepest, most arrogant-sounding tone.
