The Girl With No Past (11 page)

‘Oh, you’re here, I didn’t think you’d make it.’ Mum stood holding the door open. She seemed thinner and her black trousers and purple blouse hung loosely on her. I’d only been here a few weeks ago so was shocked at the difference in her. But no matter how she was feeling, Mum always dressed smartly.

I had no clue why she was greeting me with those words when I’d phoned barely two hours ago to say I was on my way. I explained this but she raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, you haven’t been for a few weeks and I just know how busy you are at work. Anyway, come in. You haven’t got a bag with you, aren’t you staying?’ I’d also told her it would be a short visit, just for some lunch perhaps, but nothing I’d said seemed to have registered. Mum heard only what she wanted to hear.

Following her into the house, I shuddered as I stepped into the hall. I replayed the mantra in my head. I was there for Mum. As was the case outside, nothing had changed inside either and it always disorientated me. Many years had passed since I’d lived there, but with every visit it was as if time had frozen, or rather Mum had frozen it. Why wouldn’t she want anything to be different? She could redecorate or rearrange the furniture, anything that would give the place a new feel. Why would she keep the past trapped in there with her? Only one thing was noticeably absent: my father’s presence.

In the kitchen, Mum asked if I wanted tea or coffee. I wasn’t thirsty but didn’t want to disappoint her by refusing, so asked for tea. I told her I would make it for us and when I’d finished we sat at the table, uncomfortable in each other’s presence. Thankfully, Mum was always good at filling silences, and she did so then, rambling about a ballet performance she’d been to see a couple of nights before.

I watched her as she spoke, and realised she was the one thing in the house that
had
changed. Her face, so identical to my own, was now haggard, her skin folding over itself, even though she was only fifty-five. She had covered her face in a layer of foundation – something I never bothered to do – but it couldn’t mask the stress lines. I looked away, unable to stare at something I was responsible for.

When she’d finished recounting details of the ballet, Mum suggested we go for a walk. ‘Just to Cassiobury Park, Leah. I know it’s cold but it’s not far and you’ve got a thick coat, haven’t you? We’ll be fine. Fresh air will do us some good.’ She was talking as if she rarely left the house when, in fact, the reality was the opposite. The truth was, she wanted me to see more of Watford again, to get used to it, to appreciate my hometown.

There was no reason I shouldn’t go for a walk. Cassiobury Park held no memories for me, other than feeding the birds with Mum and Dad as a small child, but there was always the chance I would bump into someone. I may have buried the past, somewhere deep inside me, but there were plenty of others who would not have. Could not have. And seeing me would only reignite their rage. The harassment I was being subjected to was proof of that.

I turned to Mum. Even though her lips were pursed, something about her face begged me to do this for her. I weighed up the odds: it was nearly lunchtime on a freezing cold weekday, so what were the chances of me bumping into a familiar face in a park? I had to go, for Mum’s sake.

‘Okay, maybe just quickly?’

Her lips remained tight as I said this, but her eyes brightened.

Mum chattered away as we walked, grilling me for details of my life. I tried to answer her questions by shedding a positive light on things, but it was the same each time I saw her; she was never satisfied with my answers. Staring at the ground, because I didn’t want to see anyone I knew, I told her the same as always. No, I didn’t have a boyfriend. No, I hadn’t been anywhere nice lately. Yes, work was fine. I mentioned the prospect of promotion and her face lit up, for a moment all the spidery lines becoming less visible.

‘It’s not guaranteed,’ I warned her, but she was already too excited to let my caution bring her down.

We reached a path, on either side of the pavement the trees leaning across so it looked as if they were kissing in the middle, above our heads. I never paid much attention to my environment, but it struck me as beautiful so I asked Mum if we could sit for a moment. I had spotted a bench further along, and with nobody around, it seemed safe to stop.

Her face brightened. ‘Of course, it’s lovely out here, isn’t it?’

And I surprised myself by agreeing with her. So far, this walk had been harmless. There weren’t many people around, and those we had passed paid us no attention. But I still eyed everyone with suspicion; people I didn’t recognise might still know who I was.

Mum hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I used to come here with Dad,’ she said. ‘After.’ She turned to me and narrowed her eyes.

This was the first time in years she had mentioned anything to do with what had happened, and I was shocked into silence.

But my reticence didn’t deter Mum. ‘We’d sit for hours and just talk about everything. Hoping to make some sense of it all, I suppose.’

I didn’t need to ask why they couldn’t talk at home; they would have needed to speak without any chance I would overhear them. I remained quiet, letting Mum get everything out in the open. So many times I had longed for her to talk about it but she always clammed up, telling me to leave it be. Perhaps that was why she had forced Dr Redfield on me, so that I would have someone else to unburden myself on. But things were different now. I was fine. I didn’t need to talk about anything. Except what had been happening lately. With Mum’s newfound loquaciousness on the topic, I wondered if she could help me.

‘So what did you come up with?’ I asked, trying to swallow the lump that had formed in my throat.

She looked away, staring straight ahead and clicking her nails. It was a habit she’d always had but she did it more when she was under pressure. ‘Well, to start with we blamed ourselves. I mean, children learn from their parents, don’t they? So we reasoned that somewhere along the line we had influenced you somehow.’

‘No, Mum, that’s not true,’ I said, shaking my head. There was no way I would let her take the blame for this. I alone was responsible for my actions.

Mum turned to me. ‘We spent so much time going over what we could have done differently, but then we realised there was nothing. You were your own person and we felt that we’d guided you, done everything we could for you—’

‘You did.’

‘Let me finish. Now I’ve started I want to get everything out in the open. Please, just hear me out.’ Her voice was stern, making me feel like a child again.

I nodded but turned away from her. Hearing her words was bad enough, but I didn’t want to see the expression on her face.

‘We felt that we were good parents, Leah,’ she continued. ‘And when he died from his awful heart attack, your dad still had no clue why you did it. I still don’t now.’

I could give no answer to this. I had tried to work it out many times afterwards but none of it was easily explainable. I had loved Adam and didn’t want to see him hurting. Changing before my eyes. Becoming increasingly unrecognisable the more time passed. But perhaps it was not as simple as that. It could be I wanted to believe this just to ease my conscience – because even worse than that was the thought that, beyond fear, there was no other reason.

Mum stopped clicking her nails and turned to me. ‘Anyway, my concern now is for you. There’s no point going over it all, it’s in the past and nothing can be changed. Are you happy? I don’t see how you can be, being on your own all the time. Why do you insist on punishing yourself like this?’

And now we were back to a conversation we’d had many times. My isolated lifestyle irked Mum, despite how many times I’d protested that I was fine. I don’t know what made me choose that moment to open up to her; perhaps it was because she had been candid with me, for a change. ‘Mum, I am okay, but…’

‘What is it? I knew there was something. What’s going on, Leah?’

I began to explain everything that had happened, but quickly realised I would need to tell Mum about Julian and Ben too, otherwise the emailer’s later messages would make no sense, be out of context, just as I felt opening up to Mum. She didn’t flinch when I mentioned Julian, but I told her we had met on a website for book lovers and skirted over my feelings for him. Ben was easier to explain because we’d met at the library and there was nothing between us. Mum stayed silent, letting me finish my story while she intently watched me.

When I got to the end, she reached for my hand. ‘Oh, Leah, I wish you’d told me this before. Why do you always have to keep things from me? You’re such a closed book. I wish you could see it’s not good for you.’

Of all the things I was expecting her to say, this wasn’t one of them. Although she had never been good at dishing out sympathy, I assumed this situation was important enough for her to at least try and understand. Try and help me. ‘It only started a few days ago,’ I said, trying to smother my annoyance. ‘And I’m here now, telling you everything.’

Mum let go of my hand and once again stared ahead of her. A young mother walked past, clutching her toddler’s hand, and she smiled at us, obviously assuming we were having a nice chat. Mother and daughter. Years ahead of her and her own girl. But at that moment I felt more as if we were strangers than members of the same family.

‘Yes, I suppose it’s more than you normally do, and I should be grateful for that. Anyway, the only thing you can do is ignore this person. They’re just trying to upset you. Stop replying to the messages. I’m sure it will all go away, once the anniversary is further behind you.’ You, she had said, not us. That summed up Mum’s feelings about it all; it was my problem to deal with.

I wanted to ask her who she thought it could be, but she chose that moment to stand up. ‘We’d better get back, hadn’t we? I’ll make us some lunch, would you like that?’ And as quickly as it had started, the conversation was over.

Somehow I managed to nod, even though I was confused by Mum’s attitude. She was always telling me to be more open, yet when I had been, about something so personal too, she brushed me off and moved on, filing the problem away in a neat compartment and forgetting it existed.

And as we headed home, Mum twittering on about her friend, Nancy, who needed an operation, I had never felt more alone. That was what happened when you let people in.

Back at the house, Mum made cheese and ham sandwiches and we sat at the dining room table, a setting far too formal for the occasion. There was no more mention of my predicament, and Mum didn’t question me further about Julian or Ben. Instead, she asked me about Maria and whether or not I thought of her as a friend.

‘In a way,’ I told her. ‘But I haven’t known her that long. It’s more of a work friendship.’

Mum peeled the crust from her sandwich. ‘I see. Well, friendships take time to grow, don’t they?’ And then she changed the subject once again and told me she was planning to go to Derby next weekend to put flowers on Dad’s gravestone.

‘Come with me, Leah. You haven’t been for so long, I think it would be good for you.’

It was strange she had chosen to have him buried there, in the town they had both lived as children, yet she had stayed put in Watford. But I could never bring myself to ask her about it. I assumed the main reason was because she didn’t want to say goodbye to the memories of Dad. But there was another alternative: perhaps Watford was as tainted for her as it was for me so she didn’t want him laid to rest here.

‘I have to work on Saturday,’ I said. ‘But I promise I’ll come next time.’

After we finished eating, I helped Mum wash up – she didn’t believe in putting the dishwasher on unless she’d had a houseful of guests, so seemed to forget she had one – and then told her I had to go. I was expecting a protest but she only nodded and told me to call when I got back home.

‘I want to show you something before you go,’ she said.

She led the way upstairs and with each step I found it harder to control my breathing. I never went up there on these visits, never wanted to see my room, which Mum had left unchanged since I’d moved out. But she opened my bedroom door and stepped in, urging me to follow. What choice did I have? I couldn’t make a scene. I tried to remember how I had left it, but couldn’t picture it. Was there anything in there that would remind me of it?

I walked in and what I saw stunned me. The room wasn’t mine. The walls had been stripped of my blue wallpaper and painted lilac. Over by the window, a double bed replaced the single one I’d had, and a matching wardrobe and chest of drawers lined the other walls. There were no posters, clothes or CDs; it was void of everything I’d ever owned. I turned to Mum and she didn’t acknowledge my shock.

‘I thought it was for the best,’ she said. ‘Now you might actually want to stay here once in a while.’