The Broken Ones (10 page)

Susanne never sticks around for a chat. She’s usually waiting by the door with her coat on and a cigarette hanging from her lips, ready to nod her goodbye and go. Most days I miss the cup of tea and a chat I used to have with Erin. But today I’m relieved that Susanne is a woman who wants to leave our house at the earliest opportunity. It leaves me alone with Mum. I have questions for her.

Mum sits on the sofa in front of the television, watching one of those early evening Australian soaps. I’m itching to blurt out the memory. I want to grasp her by the shoulders, shake her, and demand that she tell me what it means. Instead, I think back to my conversation with Chloe. Mum is a little like a child in that her suspicions are easily raised if I appear too eager. I already know that she has been deliberately keeping things from me. I need to be gentle.

I make a big show of getting into my slippers. “Long day today. How have you been, Mum? Are you getting on with Susanne?”

“I prefer the other one,” Mum says without even glancing up from the television. “At least that one bothered to make sure my soup is warm.”

“I can have a word with her if you like.” I have no intention of doing that unless I have to. Susanne is almost as intimidating as Mum, and I’ve never been able to stand up to her. “How does a nice cup of tea sound?”

“Fine.”

“Right, then.” I make my way into the kitchen, ignoring a rising, persistent eagerness. My thoughts are impatient and cajoling, trying to speed up time.

“Don’t make it weak, like you usually do,” she shouts through the wall. “Let it steep, like I told you.” Her voice fades into muttering, probably admonishing me for never listening to her instructions properly.

Her voice muffles on as I pace the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil. Yet more criticism to add to the pile. I can’t even make a cup of tea without her telling me how. That’s always been the pattern with us. She criticises me, and I take it. If she tells me my hair is too long, I get a haircut. Then she tells me it’s too short and doesn’t suit my face. She’ll tell me my clothes are old and shabby and I’ll never find a man. I buy a new dress, and she says I’m dolled up like a cheap tart. And then there’s my jaw, which she never lets me forget.

But of course, I must let the tea steep. I pour the water over the bag and return to pacing the kitchen. Other people wouldn’t put up with her. They’d walk out and leave her to her own bitterness. I grew up believing she really did want the best for me, because she’d tell me that over and over. She’d tell me all about how the world was out to get me and how she could stop that happening if I stayed with her. And now here I am, letting her tea steep like the good daughter I am. I take a deep breath and plunge the spoon into the water.

Hold it together, Sophie.
I can’t get answers if I lose my temper. Thirty-odd years and I’ve never been able to stand up to her. One of these days I worry I’ll crack open. That I’ll unleash a monster onto the world. A twisted-up and bitter monster who’s sick of it all. But I can’t do that today.

A splash of milk. No, a touch more, but not too much. I add extra to mine. I manage to stop myself from slamming the fridge door. Just.

Time to fix that smile on my face. I head back into the living room.

“What are you watching?” I ask, setting the tea down on the coffee table.

“
Neighbours
. It’s drivel.”

“Turn it off, then,” I suggest.

Her eyes narrow. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?” She lifts her tea. I can’t help but notice how the action requires more effort from her than it did a few months ago. She blows on the hot liquid. “I gave birth to you, after all. And I never got that twenty-two-inch waist ever again.” She takes a sip and shakes her head. “You didn’t let it steep. Trust me to end up with the one daughter in the world who can’t make a cup of tea.”

Next to my legs on the sofa, pressed down into the sofa cushion, I form a fist with my hand so tight that my fingernails dig into my skin. The knuckles on the hand gripping my mug turn white. I take a silent deep breath.

“I was thinking about London the other day,” I venture, dipping my toe in to test the temperature.

“What do you want to think about London for? Dirty place. Nasty memories. Like your father fucking the girl from the bakery behind my back.”

I flinch. It’s a bad sign for Mum to mention Dad. She can easily get off track, wandering down a road of suicide—caused by me, of course; I was such a terrible daughter that I drove him to it—infidelity and crime. But Geoff Howland was a rogue long before I came along. Dad had been arrested for minor offences three times by the time I was born. He never served jail time, but there were some close calls. Apart from his mistakes, I know little to nothing about my father. Someone could show me a photograph of him and I wouldn’t know who he was.

“Never marry a man who’ll steal for you. Men who steal and lie will cheat as well. Then they’ll leave you with an ungrateful daughter who can’t make tea.”

“Actually, it was a nice memory that I had of London,” I continue, hoping the conversation is still salvageable. “I was in our back garden, playing by myself—”

“Well, you didn’t have any friends.”

“Actually, I think I had one friend.” I casually sip my tea. “Do you remember? I used to play with it in the garden.”

Mum’s back stiffens. She places her tea back on the coffee table and turns back to the television. I can tell that the mood has changed from the way she clutches her hands and the tension of her limbs.

“Though I don’t think it was a real friend. It was an imaginary friend,” I say. “Don’t you remember how I called it my shadow? I think we had a little rhyme that we used to say to each other before we gave each other silly dares:
One, two, now you
. Do you remember the rhyme?”

Anyone would think that she isn’t listening to me, but I know better. I see the blood drain from her face and the slight twitch that runs along her jawline.

“I think I will turn this drivel off. And I’m going to pour this down the sink because it’s disgusting. Then I’m going to find my keys because I’d left them somewhere but I don’t know where. Maybe they’re on the kitchen table—”

“Have you been on Facebook today?” I ask. Mum is—or was—a keen Facebook user. She liked sharing cat videos and memes about “putting the Great back in Great Britain”. Before the Alzheimer’s she used to play Words with Friends almost every day. “It’s great that you’re so computer savvy.” I sip my tea nonchalantly.

She makes a guttural sound before replying. “That’s when I can use the damn thing. These days I forget all my passwords.” She laughs, but it doesn’t sound real. I’m searching for the lie in everything now. I don’t trust her.

“Oh, I think you’re still pretty good at it. Hey, weren’t we talking about my imaginary friend?” I try to keep my voice bright and breezy despite the growing temptation to yell. “Don’t you remember the shadow?”

“Where’s my soup, Erin? Isn’t it lunchtime?”

“Mum, it’s Sophie. Erin used to be your nurse. Remember? We were talking about my imaginary friend.”

“I never put up with any of that nonsense,” she says. “Imaginary friends are for the strange kids, the ones with the thick glasses who look like they’re about to piss their pants at the slightest sound. I wouldn’t let my daughter grow up like that.”

“But I did have an imaginary friend,” I insist. “I remember. The shadow. I remember playing with it in the garden. I think that’s why it was so familiar that you kept mentioning a shadow coming to the house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never said that, and I never forget what I say.”

“You did say it to me, Mum. You said it several times. You said that the shadow came into the garden one night, and then you said it came into your bedroom. Don’t you remember asking me to help you check the house for intruders?”

“Would you stop talking, Becca?” Mum gets to her feet and stands with her hands clenched at her sides. She stands so abruptly that the tea mug is knocked from the coffee table and spills onto the carpet.

Yet neither of us rushes to clear the mess. We stare at each other with wide eyes.

“Who’s Becca?” I say eventually.

The trance is broken. “You need to clean that up. It’ll stain the carpet.”

“Not until you answer my question.” I’m shaking so much that ripples appear in the tea I’m resting on my knee. “Who is Becca?”

“Some old friend from when I was a child. Back when I had friends. Fine—if you won’t do it, I will.” She bends down, making a big show of her aching back.

I slam my tea down on the coffee table. “No. I’ll do it.”

*

After Mum goes to bed, I return to the living room with a large glass of Pinot Grigio. Before I settle onto the sofa, I glance at the reflection in the mirror hanging above the fireplace. That woman is a mess. Stress, age, and exhaustion have been etched into her skin, like claws dragged across flesh. But that’s not everything I see. There’s a new spark of determination in her eyes. The slack, vacant expression she used to wear to try to get people to like her is gone, and instead, she frowns. This woman is going to put all the pieces together and figure out what is going on. And she’s going to start tonight.

I place my wine on the coffee table and pull two fat photo albums from the shelves above the television. Despite the bulge and weight of the large albums, they seem a meagre offering for a life. They’re dusty and unused, spreading dirt onto my shirt. I wipe my hand across the top album as I sit down on the sofa, then shake the dust onto the carpet. Mum would have a fit, but she isn’t here right now. She wouldn’t approve of the large glass of wine, either. I take a big gulp and lift the glass as if in toast. Then I open the cover of the album.

It’s filled with photographs from before I was born. I can’t say I’m not disappointed. This one is the thicker of the two, and I was hoping to see more of me as a child. But I remind myself of the mysterious Becca and begin searching through Mum’s old photographs to see if I can find pictures of her old friends.

The album begins with black and white photographs of Mum as a child, with her hair in ringlets and her cheeks chubby. I had hoped to see her as a baby, to see if she looked like me, not that I remember what I looked like as a baby. But as a child I see myself in the way she smiles, as though she’s unsure. It’s strange to see Mum with that expression, because she’s always seemed so sure of herself, to the point of arrogance. Could it be that my mum started out life as insecure as the rest of us? I can’t quite believe it.

For a little while I get distracted by the photographs of my grandparents. They died when I was too small for me to remember them. These pictures are a fascinating glimpse into a part of Mum’s life that I’ve never seen. We’ve never been a family to sit around photo albums and reminisce. We’re barely even a family. Both of my grandparents were smart people with nice clothes and neat hair. They’re attractive, too. Normal. I know there was a big fall-out between Mum and her parents when she married my father. They never approved and, frankly, I don’t blame them.

I flip through the pages, paying close attention to any photographs where Mum seems to be with other children, but there aren’t many, and someone has been through the album writing dates and names next to the pictures. It can’t be my grandmother’s writing, because the album doesn’t feel old enough. Though I can’t imagine her doing so, at one point Mum must have sat down and pasted these photographs into the album, writing diligently next to each picture.

There are no Beccas. Not even a Rebecca or a Becky. I move on to the next album.

It begins with my parents’ wedding picture. The first thing I realise is how young they both were. Mum was only twenty when I was born, but I was in her belly when this photograph was taken. She isn’t showing yet. I’m the size of a bean, sat waiting in her womb. Waiting to be born.

I push the album away for a moment, choked by a sudden urge to burst into tears. Another gulp of wine and a deep breath and I pull the album back. I need to hold it together if I’m going to get anywhere.

After the wedding picture, there are a couple of my parents with Mum wearing early eighties maternity wear. The photographs are hazy and often barely in focus. The two of them are laughing and joking around. Dad always seems to have a drink or a cigarette in his hand. They are sometimes with other people, but there is no writing in this album, so I can’t find anyone called Becca.

And then the album stops.

I skip through blank pages with my heard thudding against my chest. There used to be photographs here, but they’ve all been pulled out. I can see the lines of glue with patches of torn paper still stuck to them. I skip forward at least twenty pages until I find a picture of me.

I pause. With trembling fingers I reach out and touch the photograph of me. I’m alone, perhaps six or seven years old, and I’m dressed in my school uniform. My hair is in a long plait, and I have a wonky fringe that I remember Mum cutting for me:
Hold still or I’ll slap your bare bottom
. I’m smiling that same smile I saw Mum smiling as a child, unsure, hesitant and anxious.

I flip the page. There’s another photograph of me. This time I’m ten or eleven, and I’m holding a trophy. Mum stands next to me. I remember what the trophy was for. I won a prize for a science project about volcanoes at a school fete. I remember one of the teachers suggesting that she take a picture of the event, and Mum reluctantly letting her.