Unspoken (43 page)

‘And some things do,’ she replied.

Now, as we sit in the kitchen, Julia finishes her drink. ‘I’m so tired I could sleep for a thousand years.’

‘Then do,’ I reply. ‘I’ll sit and wait for you.’

There’s a stack of mail to sort through, but this particular letter arrives alone on our first morning home. I tear the seal and slide out the papers, skimming the formal letter before studying the official document. Everything is in order with the divorce. It’s nearly final.

Murray left early and went back to Northmire to persuade Mum to go back to hospital. All the kids were still asleep so he’d insisted I stay here with them.

‘Nadine’s offered to ferry the cars back with me. She wants to help. I spoke to Ed first thing too.’ Murray had hesitated. ‘Kidnap charges have already been brought against . . . him.’

I toss the divorce papers on the table. Flora stands in the doorway, sleepy, rubbing her eyes. She seems quite unaffected by what happened to her. Alex pushes past and makes for the food cupboard. I slide the papers back in their envelope, so he doesn’t see.

Hey, darling, I sign to Flora. Did you sleep well? I know she did. I went into her room six times during the night.

For the briefest of moments, everything feels normal. We are in our kitchen, the breakfast scrabble about to begin. If Murray was here, he’d be hunting for a clean shirt. Alex would be catching up with missed homework, and Flora playing with dolls when she should be dressing. Me, well, I’d be the one ironing the shirt, conjugating French verbs on the fly, insisting Flora get ready for school. Somehow, I’d suddenly be dressed and ready myself, and with the chaotic disorder of the universe empowering us, we’d tumble into the car and be delivered at our destinations. The day would begin. The day would be normal.

I can’t stand to think of things not ever being normal. Murray back at the boat, Mum alone at Northmire with no one around to hear if she speaks anyway, me and the kids alone again.

‘Murray,’ I say, pretending he is here. He turns, hopeful, his face fresh and untouched by alcohol. ‘What about if . . .’ I hesitate. ‘Maybe you could, or rather
we
could, give it another go.’ It doesn’t come out right. ‘How about, for the kids’ sake, we try . . .’ I pause. He wouldn’t like that. ‘Maybe we could see someone . . .’ He definitely wouldn’t like that. I grab him by the shoulders. ‘Murray French, I love you. I love you, I love you,’ I say, and this time he understands completely.

‘Mum, who are you talking to?’ Alex spoons cereal into his mouth, grinning.

‘Your father,’ I say, not letting go of Murray’s shoulders.

‘But he can’t hear you.’

‘Oh yes he can,’ I say, dropping a kiss on to his invisible mouth.

It’s propped up on the kitchen table at Northmire, leaning against the pepper mill as if someone forgot to drop it in the postbox. A small white envelope with
Julia
written on the front makes me pause, frown, pick it up, turn it round and round, run my finger beneath the unsealed flap.

I stand it up against the pepper mill again, shrugging, but stop in the doorway. It’s Mary’s handwriting.

‘Mary,’ I call out. Not because she will reply but so that she hears me coming and isn’t surprised or half dressed. I suspect she will be in exactly the same position as we left her – asleep in bed. Today she will have to go back to hospital. Thank God that Julia had one night away from all the mess; one night with me. I stop halfway up the stairs and take a moment to relive our closeness.

Upstairs, I open Mary’s bedroom door a few inches. I am right. She is sleeping. She looks childlike, as if her life has rewound to the beginning – her skin strangely smooth, bloodless.

‘Mary,’ I say. ‘It’s Murray.’ I pull back the curtains. Light floods in.

The sheets are bound around Mary’s body, pulled tight across her chest. Her hands lie clasped over her waist. Her hair spreads on the pillow, more silver than ever before. The medication bottles sit empty on the bedside table.

‘Oh God, Mary. Mary, no!’

I shake her. She is lifeless.

 

I don’t touch anything. I can’t, because my hands are shaking. I leave the room, already tainted with a faintly sweet smell. Gasping for air, I run downstairs. I stop in the kitchen, panting, thousands of memories spilling in my way, tripping me up, as if the house just doesn’t have room for them any more.

The letter for Julia still sits pristine and white on the table. I think about the consequences if I open it; think about them if I don’t. I sit down because my legs won’t hold me. As I unfold the paper, Mary Marshall speaks loud and clear.

When I’m finished, the letter flutters to the floor. Mary’s words escape; butterflies set free.

 

The guard at Whitegate Prison remembers me. There are no planned appointments, no scheduled visits, no meeting cell booked. I’ve come straight from Northmire, leaving Mary in bed. No one except me knows that she took an overdose. I must be quick or Julia will come looking for me at the farm. I need to be the one to tell her.

‘Back so soon?’ he asks. ‘You’ll have to wait, I’m afraid. I’ll need to phone through for special clearance if you haven’t got this booked in.’

I think he takes pity on me. T-shirt, jeans, trainers. My zip-up coat is muddy from searching the fields. My face is layered with sadness. Sheila would scream at me to smarten up, to buck up. There’s no point in telling her that he’s not my client any more. No point in telling the guard, either. I’ll never get through security then.

‘OK, you’re in. Let’s get started,’ he says a few minutes later. The front desk guard begins the necessary paperwork. I place my hand on Mary’s letter. It’s folded into my coat pocket. In the end, Mary had her say.

 

He sits at a table set squarely in the middle of a small room. There are no windows and, as usual, the guard leaves us alone. ‘Thirty minutes,’ he says, and I want to tell him that Mary’s story will take at least that number of years.

‘Carlyle,’ I say. It’s impossible to tell if he shows remorse. His plain prison clothes, his plain expression, his plain posture give nothing away. ‘I’m not your lawyer any more.’

‘Hardly worth a visit to tell me that, was it?’ His voice is unemotional and he barely moves as he speaks.

‘I know who you are,’ I state calmly. Inside me a storm rages. ‘I know you are Julia’s father. What I want to know is
why
.’ My voice is barely above a whisper but deafening to Carlyle. He flinches. I lean over the table. I don’t know if I’m asking why he kidnapped my daughter or why he raped my mother-in-law.

He sighs. ‘Flora?’

I nod. A good place to start.

‘Because she is just like Julia. I missed her childhood and saw Flora as a second chance.’ He lays his hands flat on the table. His answer is slick and prepared. ‘And because she doesn’t speak and I don’t sign, we had a silent understanding. I never planned to take her. I certainly never meant to keep her longer than an hour or two, but how can you cram a missed childhood into such a short time? She’s my grandchild. It was wrong, I know—’

‘Wrong?’ I yell. ‘Wrong doesn’t even come close to the agony you caused my family.’ I want to punch him, throw the table at him, beat him to a pulp. But it wouldn’t help. Flora has already confessed to wandering off the boat.

I was bored, Daddy. I went all along the path and on to the road above the bridge to look for you. David was passing in his car and stopped to take care of me. Flora’s hands were frantic as she signed and I had to make her slow down.

‘And it’s because I love her,’ Carlyle continues. Now I’m not sure if he’s talking about Mary, Julia or Flora. Three generations of Marshall women. Does he love them all?

‘Back then, I wanted her so much it hurt. But there was a gap between us – not just our ages, but a gap in time, a gap in the universe. She stood one side, I stood the other. Our destinies were lifetimes apart and I couldn’t bear that. I never meant to hurt her.’

‘Mary,’ I say. He’s talking about Mary. I picture them both – him the cocksure medical student, her struggling to make a living. Mary’s letter mentioned her days in Cambridge, ‘I know what you did to her. It was brutal. And I know that Julia is the result.’

Carlyle stiffens. His skin washes grey and yet somehow he still maintains that proud posture, the respected doctor. ‘You’re right,’ he tells me. ‘Julia is my daughter.’ I expected regret, but his words are laced with pride.

‘She was falling in love with you, you fool. Did you know that? Were you in love with her? Are you some kind of sick—’

‘Stop!’ His breathing quickens. The muscles banding around his jaw pull tight, making it difficult for him to speak. ‘I didn’t know she was going to fall for me in that way. When she called me on Christmas Day, it was clear she needed more than a doctor for her mother. She needed someone strong. A father figure and . . .’ He trails off, having the decency not to bring my relationship with Julia into this.

‘It was my opportunity to get to know the daughter I’d been denied,’ he continues. ‘I confess that I moved back into this area to make contact with my . . . family. I hoped that after thirty years, Mary would allow me into their lives. I didn’t expect her to come to my surgery that day. I’d planned to approach her at some point, but not like that. I didn’t even know she was registered at the practice.

‘Later that day, after her appointment, I called her but she refused to speak to me. Then, when Julia called me out in a panic on Christmas Day, I saw that something was very wrong with Mary, as if something had short-circuited. After all these years, she was still suffering. I was determined to help.’

I’m more certain than ever that Julia mustn’t know any of this. I’ll do whatever it takes to keep her out of the courtroom. ‘I know Mary wasn’t ill – not in the physical sense.You’ll be struck off the medical register now anyway, but it was a pretty low act concocting a nonexistent illness.’

‘I wanted to make sure she got the treatment she needed. It was my fault she’d ended up in that state. None of this was planned with malice or much forethought. I had to help Mary, to make amends. But I also knew that she would never agree to go to a psychiatric hospital. And to convince Julia as well, there had to be a serious medical implication for her mother.’ He sighs. ‘After all this time, it’s as if another person did those . . . things. I’m a different man now.’

‘I suppose you’ve left the Marshall family with a hefty bill.’ It gets better. I see the remainder of Northmire’s land carved up and sold off to pay the debt. I see a disturbed man.

‘No,’ he says urgently. ‘The account is taken care of. There is a trust fund. My parents left me a large amount of money and I immediately invested it for Julia. That’s what parents do for their children, isn’t it?’

Part of me wants to ask how much; part of me doesn’t even want Julia to have the money.

He second-guesses my thoughts. ‘She won’t need to worry about her future. The trustees will be in touch.’

That can’t happen, I think in a panic. I was working this out, about Mary, about keeping Julia safe, about keeping quiet. How can I destroy my own wife? The death of her mother will be pain enough, let alone finding out about her father – the man she fell in love with. ‘If you want to do something for Julia, then you’ll never tell her who you are.You’ll never make contact with her again. You won’t reply if she approaches you, and the money must go to a charity. One that Mary would approve of.’ I think quickly. ‘A charity for disadvantaged kids. Give the whole lot away.’

He doesn’t protest. My fingers slip round Mary’s letter tucked in my pocket.

‘And what about those photographs you have of Julia and the kids? Are you some kind of stalker?’ Anger rises in me again as Carlyle returns with a swift answer, as if he was already on trial.

‘From time to time I watched Julia.’ He swallows and his jaw clenches. ‘I was working for a medical agency, and whenever I could, I travelled to Cambridgeshire. I wanted to know that she was OK. That she was happy.’