Four Waifs on Our Doorstep (33 page)

It had been a long time since we had exchanged those emails. All I knew from Jamie was that Stacey had moved to Durvale. All the family were still so angry with her, that I could never talk
about her, except to Mike. He never said anything, but I knew he worried about her too.

Would we be estranged from her forever? She was still very young to cope without any family to fall back on. I knew we couldn’t do that for her, but maybe I should just reach out my hand
to her. So I asked Jamie for her phone number and sent her a brief text, suggesting we meet for coffee the next morning.

I kept the phone by me, but there was no reply for several hours. Then finally it came. She agreed.

I was there early at the little bistro in the centre of Durvale, so I sat at a table and watched the world go by. Time passed slowly, very slowly, as my apprehension grew. This was a stupid
idea. She wouldn’t come. Why should she? How long should I wait before leaving? I might as well order a drink to fill the time.

Just then, she came through the door, looking better than last time I’d seen her, but that had been more than a year ago.

‘Hi, Mum,’ she said in a tentative voice and sat down opposite me.

‘Hello, Stace. Thanks for coming. Do you want a coffee?’

I ordered. Then we began a guarded conversation.

‘How is life treating you now?’ I asked.

‘OK,’ she said.

‘How are you managing?’

‘I’ve got a waitressing job.’

‘Oh good. Do you ever see Jamie?’

‘Not really, but he texts me sometimes.’

‘It’s good to see you, Stace,’ I reached my hand out to her across the table.

She hesitated. ‘You too, Mum,’ she said, then put her hand in mine for a few seconds. ‘How’s Dad?’

‘He’s more or less recovered from the heart attack now.’ I paused. ‘But he’s never been the same since your allegation.’

She took her hand away. ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘I didn’t tell any of the family I was going to meet you.’

She said nothing, but her dark-brown eyes looked steadily into mine. ‘How are Carrie and Sam?’

‘They’re fine. They miss us all being together. Dad and I do too, but that can’t be, can it?’

‘I suppose not.’ She lowered her head, on the defensive now.

I let the silence lie between us.

‘I’d like to come back,’ she said in a small voice, looking up again, her eyes almost pleading.

‘I don’t think it could happen, Stace . . . unless you apologise for everything. The stealing and lying. But the worst thing was the allegation. It hurt your dad so badly, worse than
you’ll ever know. And me too. You owe us all an apology. If you want to come back, even for a visit, you would have to apologise. And you would have to retract your allegation.’ I had
meant to be cautious. Maybe I had said too much.

She said nothing as she finished her coffee and got up from the table. ‘I’ve got to go now. Give my love to Dad . . . and everyone.’

I wanted to get up and give her a hug. It was instinctive I suppose, but before I could, she was gone, walking towards the door and out into the crowded street.

I stayed in my seat for a few minutes longer, going through what we’d both said. Would I see her again? Could she ever apologise to any of us? I felt immensely sad, but there was a small
flicker of hope, deep down. Was it misplaced?

28

‘W
hat on earth have you been doing in our bedroom?’ asked Mike, when I came back from taking the kids somewhere.

‘What do you mean?’

‘When I came in and went upstairs, there was stuff all over the bed.’

‘What stuff?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t go in and look. It was just a pile of papers, bits and pieces, and some cards stood up on the bed.’

‘That wasn’t me!’

We both went straight upstairs to have a look. As soon as I got into our room I could see there was a lot more that Mike hadn’t noticed. We stood and stared.

In that short time when we were both out, someone had come into our bedroom, found my memory box and turned it out all over our bed, fished amongst the jumble of photos and souvenirs, and the
children’s notes to me, and stood up some of the cards on top of the duvet. Looking at which cards had been chosen, I had a good idea who this might have been. But if I’d had any
doubts, they would have been dispelled by the awful mess they’d made on the mirrors and dressing table, all covered, the mirrors obliterated, with garish colours of metallic spray paint. What
a mess!

The painting over of the mirror made me think of just one person. Not long after the children had arrived with us, Stacey, or Anita as she was then, at the age of six announced to us all that
she was growing her fringe long enough to cover her face, so that nobody could recognise her as the girl she used to be.

As I inspected the damage and imagined Stacey making merry with the spray cans, Mike went off and phoned the police. There must have been a squad car nearby as they arrived minutes later.

One policeman stood in the doorway while the other came in to have a closer look at the mess.

‘Somebody doesn’t like you, dear,’ he said.

‘No,’ I said. ‘My daughter left under very difficult circumstances.’

‘How did you know it was Stacey?’ Mike asked me later, after they’d gone.

‘Who else could it be? Who was the one who hated mirrors, who wanted to grow her fringe to hide her face so nobody would see it and recognise her?’ I paused. ‘It was the
mirrors she sprayed in our bedroom. She completely covered them with paint.’

A few days later, the police called us and I answered.

‘Hello, Mrs Merry. We’ve tracked down your daughter, Stacey, and we’ve questioned her about the break-in and the damage to your bedroom, but she’s given us an alibi. We
checked it out and it’s a solid alibi, so we are not charging her with this.’

‘Oh, I see.’ I didn’t know whether to be relieved or indignant that she’d managed to cover her tracks. It was a bizarre episode . . . maybe a sign of something. I just
didn’t know what.

Carrie and Sam were doing all right at their schools and Jamie kept in sporadic contact, when he felt like it. It was depressing texting him every week and hardly ever hearing
back from him. But then I would think back to that first night, when they all arrived on our doorstep. It wasn’t their fault. It’s not their fault, I thought, and it’s not my
fault either. So instead of beating myself up about all the mistakes I’d made along the way, I just kept trying. I don’t know how many times he rejected my attempts to keep in touch,
how many times he let me down, and I was quite surprised at myself that every time I managed to pick myself up and think: This is the very last time, Jamie, that I’m giving you another
chance. And of course it never was the last time.

One day, when it was coming up to his birthday, which is the same day as mine, I texted him.

‘Your birthday’s coming up. I’m going to Ashbridge. Would you like to come and have a coffee and I’ll buy you a birthday present?’

‘Yes,’ he texted back straight away.

I picked him up and he was terribly polite. I leaned forward a little to give him a kiss, but he wasn’t having any of that. He just got in the car and off we went. We had a polite chat
over coffee and went off to choose something new for him to wear. When we got back and I dropped him off, he turned back to face me and smiled.

‘Thank you very much for the birthday present.’

The next day he texted me. ‘Thank you for the present and hope you have a nice birthday as well.’ And then I didn’t
hear from him again for a while. But I just had to keep texting him and hoping that one time he would text me back.

With Stacey it was different. Even though she hadn’t contacted me, I did text her from time to time, just so that she knew I was thinking of her, and she wasn’t abandoned. But it was
up to her to respond, and she didn’t.

We were approaching our golden wedding the following year, so I wondered if perhaps we should hold a big party at home.

‘Yes, that would be lovely,’ said Mike. ‘A big party for all our family and friends.’

‘And Stacey?’ We hadn’t talked much about her lately and all I knew about her was that she was all right, according to Jamie.

‘What do you think?’ he asked, looking at me rather warily.

‘I’d like the whole family to be there.’

‘Well, why not?’ he shrugged. ‘She’s part of the family, but what do you think the others will say?’

‘I don’t think any of them would be happy with that. They’re so protective of you, and still incensed about how much she hurt you.’

‘Both of us.’

‘Yes, but maybe if I talk to them . . . I don’t know. I’ll call a family meeting and see how it works out.’

‘Good idea.’

Neither of us had mentioned the F word – forgive – but I felt it was still the big stumbling block. How could I expect any of us to forgive without an apology, some sign of remorse?
I had said to Stacey about Dad deserving an apology, and the rest of us too, the last time we met. When we had coffee in that Durvale bistro. I had heard nothing from her since, unless you count
the spray-paint episode.

‘It’s our golden wedding coming up next year,’ I began to explain the following Sunday afternoon, when we all sat around the dining table for a family
meeting. Whenever there was any important decision to be made, we had always gathered everyone together to ask for their opinions. I felt this was going to be one of the biggest decisions we would
make for quite a long time.

‘We’ve got to do something for that,’ grinned Laura.

‘Let’s have a party,’ added Brett.

‘Yes, I could help Mum make some cakes,’ suggested Carrie.

‘Good idea, but I don’t think Mum should have to make her own anniversary cake, though,’ said Jamie.

‘I agree,’ said Sam with a nod.

‘We could hire a big room in a hotel,’ suggested Jane. ‘And invite your and Dad’s friends there as well. We could make it a special lunch party.’

‘It’s very kind of you, but that would be awfully expensive.’

‘We could all club together,’ Jane offered straight away.

‘I know, and it’s very generous, but I’ve talked about it with Dad and what we’d both really like is to put on a big party here, for everyone to come and share our
special day. We could put on lots of food, and you could all bring things too. Everyone could help us decorate the house and get everything ready.’

‘That sounds great!’ Laura smiled. ‘I can’t wait. When is it?’

‘Not for ages yet,’ I said. ‘I just hope we both last that long!’

‘Of course you will,’ said Anna, always the one to reassure us.

‘We want the whole family to be there,’ I said pointedly. ‘Everyone.’

There was a stunned silence as they all thought about that and began to realise what I meant. The whole atmosphere changed and even the air in the room seemed to cool.

‘You don’t mean Stacey? Surely you can’t mean Stacey, after she nearly killed you both?’ Jane was on a mission now. ‘If you give Stacey another chance to come back
to this house, I will not come. None of us will. You can’t mean it.’

‘Dad and I did have a talk about it and we would like to have everyone there that day. I know she might not want to come, but we’d like to be able to invite her.’

‘Do you want this family party or don’t you?’ insisted Jane. ‘Because if Stacey comes, I won’t. You cannot let her do this to Dad again.’

‘I won’t come either,’ agreed Brett.

‘Me neither,’ added Laura. ‘I’ll never be able to forgive her for what she did to Grandad.’

And everyone else agreed that they could not forgive her. They could not have her in the house and she must not come. They made it very, very clear; they were absolutely vehement.

I wasn’t surprised by the strength of their feelings. I hadn’t forgiven her myself.

It was about a year since I had last seen or heard from Stacey when I received a letter through the post, addressed just to me, with what looked like her handwriting. I stared
at it, as if that could tell me for sure. I felt I knew, but it was so long since I had seen her writing on anything . . . I turned the white envelope over and over in my hands, then put it down
carefully on the table, address right way up, facing me.

I was alone in the house. Had Stacey come back into my life or was this some new bombshell about to drop on us? I felt almost afraid to open it, to break the spell. I put the kettle on and made
a cup of coffee, then brought that back to the table and sat down in front of the letter.

Finally, I could wait no longer. I opened it and unfolded two neatly typed A4 pages. I began to read. One word leapt out at me, on the first line, and then again . . . and again. I didn’t
read far into Stacey’s letter before the tears welled up and blurred my vision so much I had to go and get a tissue. As I read, so many parts of the letter stood out and hit me: