Billy and Me (18 page)

All I wanted was my mum back. I’d lie awake at night listening to the sobs coming from behind her bedroom door. Sometimes, especially if I’d had an attack in the night, I’d want nothing more than to go to her. To be held by her. On those occasions I would take Mr Blobby and tiptoe across the landing. I wouldn’t go into her room. I wouldn’t even knock. I’d just sit outside hugging my toy. Longing for my mum but feeling too ashamed to reach out for her. I didn’t want to add to her worries when she was already so fragile.

For six years we lived under a cloud of doom, not really communicating or expressing how we felt. Life had stopped. We walked around our house in silence, unsure how to move forward, not wanting to move too far away from what was.

Mum’s close call with the pills was the start of our recovery. She promised that she hadn’t meant to take them. She just
wanted to end her recurring nightmares so that she could sleep. She wasn’t thinking straight. Hadn’t thought about how her actions could’ve left me all alone in the world. It was a horrific time, especially as it took us back to the emergency ward at the hospital – back to that horrific place.

It was after her stay in hospital that things started to become more bearable. We began to talk, not about Dad or anything important, but about silly things – books we’d read, or something we’d seen on the news. It allowed a relationship to be rebuilt between us.

I made sure I was there for her, whether she needed me or not. I’d cook when I got home from school, making sure we’d sit down together and eat – something we’d stopped doing when our unit had been blown apart. I started doing more around the house so that Mum had less to worry about, although her obsession with cleaning and for things to be precise continued, so there was only so much I could do. I was there more, choosing to sit downstairs with her instead of being cooped up in my bedroom alone, blocking out the world. I watched TV or films with her. Sometimes we’d just sit and read together. We even did the odd puzzle.

I think that’s when she started loving me again. I don’t think she had anything left inside her to give before that.

With Mum on her way to coming back to me, there was no way I could think of leaving Rosefont Hill to go travelling or to university. How could I swan off and live another life when I had done this to Mum?

The guilt still clung to me, making me doubt myself and keeping me away from other people. All my energy and time went into keeping Mum safe and well. I still didn’t think I was worthy of anyone else’s love or affection.

It was Molly who made me see that I was. She never asked questions about that time that had obviously had a massive impact on my life and she never looked at me with pitiful eyes. To others I felt like the walking personification of my dad’s tragic death, but to Molly I was simply Sophie May, a quiet little girl who was willing to learn.

Molly’s husband Albert had died a few years earlier from a heart attack, so she knew what it was to grieve the loss of someone you loved more than anything else in the world. We had something in common. She never tried to force information out of me, but she did talk about Albert a lot. She was forever telling me stories of the pair of them and their son Peter. I admired her for doing so. I saw that by speaking of the man she loved she was keeping his spirit alive, that he was as much a part of her then as he was when he was living. So, I did talk to her about Dad, about how he used to make me laugh and how much I missed him. She was the only one I’ve ever opened up to. I couldn’t bring him up at all at home – even after years had passed it felt too raw, I wasn’t sure how Mum would react. I couldn’t cope with the thought of seeing more anguish in her eyes when she was on her way to getting better.

In time, I spoke to Molly about the actual night of Dad’s death, Mum’s miscarriage, and how guilty I felt. How, in my eyes, I was just as guilty as the drunk driver who ran into him. She was aghast that I’d been carrying those feelings around with me for so long. Shocked that it was guilt that had driven me to cut myself off and feel unworthy. Eventually, she made me realize that what had happened was a tragic accident, and one that I’d punished myself for long enough.

It wasn’t as if I transformed my life and turned back into the carefree, larger-than-life character I was before my dad died – I don’t think she’ll ever return – but I started to let people in a bit more. I started to feel human again.

Obviously, as an adult, looking back I can see that I didn’t actually kill my dad, some intoxicated moron, who was too drunk to realize that he’d even knocked someone over, let alone killed them, had. I can see that I didn’t actually cause my mum to miscarry either; events like that are out of our control. However, somewhere deep inside me that eleven-year-old girl still picks away at me occasionally, causing me to doubt myself. After all, the chain of events did start with me, and my appalling behaviour …

I stop speaking, suddenly aware that tears have been streaming down my face whilst filling Billy in on the details of those morbid years.

‘I’m sorry,’ I say, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself down.

‘Baby, you don’t need to say sorry,’ says Billy softly, his forehead lined with concern.

‘I worry that I’m forgetting him …’ I blurt. ‘I don’t remember his face any more. Well, I do, but the image in my head is from the pictures of him I’ve had surrounding me, not of him moving around and actually living. I can’t remember his laugh, his voice …’ I admit, shaking my head.

‘That’s only natural, but it doesn’t mean you love him any less.’

‘But I never really knew him. Not in the way adults know and understand each other, you know? I knew him as a child,’ I explain. ‘I heard somewhere that when people die, those around them have a desire to turn them into some sort of saint, to put them on this unrealistic pedestal, which is far from the reality of who that person actually was. Maybe I’ve done that. Maybe he wasn’t a great man.’

‘And maybe he was.’

‘Maybe …’ I mutter, looking at the floor, trying to gather my thoughts. Surprised that I’ve allowed myself to voice this fear, which I’ve kept to myself for so long. ‘Oh, I’m so angry with Molly!’ I groan.

‘But she didn’t know what Sally was up to. You know that.’

‘No, Billy, that’s not the point. I didn’t think she’d ever share what I told her with anyone else.’

‘But she didn’t. Can’t you see that she didn’t share any of the details you’ve just told me? You don’t know what Sally said to get those words out of her or how she’s twisted her sentences to fit the piece. This Carla person must’ve mentioned the whole thing first; it wouldn’t have been Molly, that’s for sure.’

I think back to the text I’d received from Carla on the night of the BAFTAs; she did say that she’d be back in Rosefont Hill to see her parents the following week, and that she’d pop into the shop while she was there, so no doubt that’s when she would have spoken to Sally. Carla probably went in declaring that she was once my best friend or some nonsense like that. She’d
have loved passing on information and acting in the know, probably feeling a little bit vindictive because her message to me had gone unanswered. My guess is that, after getting wind of the story, Sally would have turned to Molly for clarification of what she’d heard or simply to fill in the blanks.

‘I just wish she hadn’t said anything. I know she loves a gossip, but this is …’ I shake my head, at a loss for words.

‘Has she tried to call you?’ Billy asks calmly.

‘Yes. I’ve had more than sixty calls from her,’ I say sheepishly.

‘Don’t you think you should call her back?’

‘No! Not yet … I can’t yet. I have to think about what I’d say first.’

‘What about your mum?’ Billy asks with a sigh.

I hadn’t even thought about Mum. I don’t remember seeing any missed calls from her, but she’s bound to have seen the papers today in the library.

‘I’ll call her!’ I say, rushing to get my phone from the kitchen counter, ashamed at not having phoned her sooner.

‘Hello, Rosefont Hill Library. Susan speaking. How can I help?’ Susan asks in her usual bored tone.

‘Susan, it’s Sophie here.’

‘Oh, hello,’ she says, perking up at the mention of my name.

‘Is Mum there at all?’

‘No, she’s taken the day off.’

‘Oh.’

‘Although she did open up first thing. She was here when the papers arrived but then asked to leave when I got in. Said she wasn’t feeling well,’ she says dubiously, letting me know that there was more to it.

‘Right, I’ll try her at home, then. Thanks, Susan,’ I say before putting down the phone and dialling mum’s home number, shooting Billy a worried glance.

‘She left when she saw the papers,’ I say, shaking my head, listening to the continuous ringing of the phone. ‘There’s no answer.’

I look at Billy in a panic.

‘Don’t worry … let’s just drive out there.’

‘Are you sure?’ I ask, already running to the bedroom to change out of my pyjamas so that we can leave.

‘Of course!’ he says, following me, throwing on some clean clothes. ‘It’s not as if either of us is going to relax until we know she’s OK, are we?’

I don’t bother knocking when we arrive home. I use my key instead and let us both in. We walk through to the living room, where we find Mum sitting on the floor, surrounded by boxes. Straight away I feel sick at the thought of her obsessive cleaning again; however, before I can react I spot what’s in her hand and scattered on the floor around her: photos of Dad. Tears instantly prickle at my eyes.

‘Mum?’

‘Oh,’ she says, startled, clearly deeply immersed in the photo she was looking at. ‘Hello, you two. What are you doing all the way out here?’ she asks, before lifting
the photograph to her face, a smile forming as she takes in the image.

‘I tried to call you.’

‘Oh, was that you? I thought it was one of those cold callers,’ she says, distractedly.

‘Mum?’ I plead, knowing that she’s seen the papers, and that she knows why we’re here.

‘I’m fine, love,’ she says, lowering the photo in her hand and letting out a sigh, looking up at us both.

‘Really?’

‘Yes …’ she says slowly, looking back down at the pictures on the floor. ‘I saw that photo in the paper and had a sudden longing to see more of them. I can’t remember the last time I had a good root through all of these. I don’t think I have since …’ she breaks off sadly.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?’ asks Billy, gently rubbing her shoulder.

Mum places her hand on top of his and pats it as she nods.

‘Thank you, darling.’

With Billy out of the room I go over and kneel beside Mum, looking down at the scattered photos.

‘I don’t think I’ve even seen most of these!’ I say, as I pick up photos of Mum and Dad looking extremely young and funky.

‘No, you won’t have done, because you’re not in them,’ Mum says with a chuckle.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘You used to have this obsession about it being the
three of us … I don’t think your little mind could quite grasp back then that your mummy and daddy had a life before you were born. It was as if we were leaving you out and you’d go off and sulk. You were only interested in seeing pictures that involved you in some way.’

‘Such a spoilt brat,’ I mutter.

‘No, you weren’t … you just had some funny ways about you, that’s all. Your dad used to find your little quirks so endearing. He used to argue that it was charming and that your need for inclusion was beautiful. You were never needy, love, you were a giver. His little lovebug.’

I can’t help the lump that forms in my throat or the tears that fall at hearing this new piece of information.

‘I’m so sorry …’ I say, instantly feeling guilty, wiping the tears away.

‘There’s nothing wrong with crying, love,’ Mum says, putting her hand on my knee. ‘I used to worry about you not letting your emotions out.’

I just nod, biting my lip, not sure what to say.

‘Sometimes I just lie in bed and think about what must go through his head as he looks down at us,’ she confesses. ‘I know he’d be so proud of you, Sophie.’

‘Really?’ I ask meekly, not sure that I understand why he would be.

‘Oh yes, moving to London like that was a big decision, driven by love, he’d have liked that bit. He was such a romantic thing. Although, I don’t know what he’d have been like around Billy.’

‘Don’t you think he’d have liked him, then?’

‘Oh, he’d have loved him. But your dad was so protective of his little angel. I think he’d be keeping Billy at arms’ length, letting him know that if he were ever to cross the line and hurt you that he’d be in for it.’

‘I’d have won him round in no time!’ declares Billy as he comes back into the room carrying a tray with three mugs.

‘I don’t doubt that,’ grins Mum.

‘What on earth are you two wearing in this one?’ I ask, laughing, as I spot a photo of the pair of them, Mum wearing a yellow chequered dress and Dad in a flower-patterned shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a tad too much chest hair, with high-waisted orange hipsters.

Mum takes the photo, peers closely at it and just smiles.

‘That was our first date at the cinema, one of his friends took it, I think.’

I look at Mum as she absorbs the image and remembers a happier time. A bubble of love and warmth engulfing her as she enjoys the feeling reminiscing gives her, after blocking out those memories for so long.

The doorbell rings, causing us all to look at each other. I notice Mum’s cheeks turn a bright shade of pink.

‘Erm … I’ll just go and get that,’ she says, before shuffling towards the front door.

Billy looks at me questioningly. I shrug in response, not sure who it could be and what could cause Mum’s sudden change of behaviour.

When we hear Mum’s muffled conversation at the
door, it’s immediately apparent that she is trying to get rid of whoever has arrived. It’s a man. I assume it’s the male company she’s been keeping. Without thinking I jump to my feet and head towards them.