Come Back to Me (35 page)

When Tess Duvalis opened the door, her expression was a blank of shock. She briefly put a hand out against the doorframe to steady herself, and then her face filled with joy and she moved swiftly towards her daughter, whispering, ‘You're alive, you're alive, thank god, thank god'. She caught Amy in a hug so fierce that it crushed the breath from her, leaving her gasping for air, as they sobbed their relief into one another's shoulders.

Eventually, Tess let her go, and they moved into the house. Amy felt light-headed, floating.

There was so much that was unfamiliar, but the totality of the place was achingly like home. Although everything Amy was seeing was answering her questions, it was not until she made her way over to the mantelpiece that it sank in. There were old pictures of her on the wall – various school photos showing her metamorphosis from child to adult.

And on the mantelpiece, another photo – Amy, and yet not Amy.

A single photo. But it answered the one big question she hadn't dared face for all these years.

Tess came up behind her. ‘She's at school,' she said.

Amy turned around and saw everything in her mother's eyes – frustration, sadness, understanding, concern, love.

Amy's voice was a sob. ‘I'm so sorry.'

Tess came and held her. ‘What for, my darling?'

‘I left her. I just left her.'

‘Yes, you left her. But you left her with a way home.'

A letter in the blanket. A number scrawled on her tummy in eyeliner, just in case the letter got lost. Such precarious links, but at the time it was all she had been capable of.

‘Listen,' Amy's mother said as she held her. ‘As soon as I got that call, I understood. I'm so sorry, Amy.' She stroked her daughter's hair.

Amy could barely get the words out through her grief, but gradually stuttered, ‘I'm the one who should be sorry.'

‘What for?' Tess asked. She moved Amy away from her, holding her by the shoulders. ‘She was never a burden, Amy. She was a gift. I have been able to do things for her even if I couldn't do them for you. It has been a precious, precious link between us while you've been gone.'

‘What's she like?'

Her mother smiled. ‘Cheeky. Moody. Funny. Actually, she's pretty much like you.'

Suddenly Amy forgot how to breathe again. ‘I need some air,' she gasped, and rushed for the back door. She flung it open and sat on the steps, her eyes closed, concentrating
on the in and out of her tired, aching lungs.

Her mother sat down beside her, putting her arm around Amy, staring into the distance. When Amy looked over, she saw Tess was crying silently. She rested her head on her mother's shoulder as they sat there and let their feelings flood out of them.

After a while, in a small voice, Amy asked another question she hardly dared hear the answer to. ‘Mum, did Dad die because of me?'

Tess took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. ‘Amy, of course your dad was very upset by what happened to you. But any number of things could have triggered the heart attack. He never ate very well, he drank, he'd only given up smoking a few years before. And although he was sad when you left, and wished he could have supported you more, he was always optimistic when he spoke of you. He knew you loved him; he understood why you left, even though he didn't like it, and he was sure you would come back.'

‘That's the crazy thing, Mum. I was on the verge of it all the time until he died. And then I just couldn't.'

Her mother rubbed her back in reply.

As Amy looked down the garden, her gaze caught on something at the end. She jumped up and ran, until there it was.

Her garden. Their garden – in a tatty wicker basket, with new patches of moss and a few tiny flowers.

Tess came and stood behind her. ‘Beth thinks she looks after it,' she said, a wry smile on her face.

Amy smiled back, overwhelmed just by hearing that name.
Beth. Her daughter
.

She fished around in the inside pocket of her jacket until she found what she was looking for, and then placed the wishing well back in the centre of the tiny garden. It settled snugly into the space it had been taken from nearly ten years ago. It looked like it had never left. She glanced briefly to the sky, then both she and her mother stared silently at the wishing well.

‘I'm scared to meet her,' Amy whispered eventually.

‘I know, you're bound to be,' Tess replied. ‘Although, to be honest, she's like a mini-whirlwind most of the time, full of questions and energy and activity – I'm sure she'll suck you up into the madness straight away.'

Amy managed a small smile, then asked another of her endless awkward questions. ‘What does Beth know about me?'

‘That you're her mother. That you had to go away and you will be coming home as soon as you can. That you love her.'

‘And what about … her father?'

Her mother sighed, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. ‘I'm afraid I've told her he's in heaven. I didn't know what to do – I thought that might be best.'

Amy nodded. ‘I think it was, at least for now,' she said.

Tess continued quietly, ‘I prayed every day that you would call, so I could tell you I had got her. So you didn't have to worry.'

Amy shook her head. ‘I should have, Mum, I know. But I didn't dare. I always wanted her to be here, with you, but when I let myself think about it – that letter; the phone number – they were such tenuous links to you. What if the
letter was lost, or not read properly – it was a foreign country, after all. What if the number was smudged, or they didn't understand what it was? I knew if I contacted you and you didn't have her, she would probably be lost forever. And if that had been the case, it would have truly, finally broken me; I would never have found my way back from it. So it was better to be in the dark and to hope. I've only really stopped blanking things out in the past few weeks, because I've been forced to confront them.'

Then she told her mother about meeting Alex again, and the court case. Tess just listened, her eyes conveying the emotions she felt about everything Amy had been through.

When Amy had finished, they stood there in silence again, looking at the miniature garden. Then Amy asked, ‘Wasn't it risky to tell her anything about me when I might not have come back? You could have told her I was dead too. Or pretended she was your own.'

Her mother's gentle hand was resting against Amy's back, as though she needed the touch to confirm all this was real. It felt heavy, but Amy didn't mind the weight.

‘I never lost hope, Amy,' Tess said.

Amy looked into her mother's steadfast eyes, and saw, without the tiniest thread of doubt, someone who had never stopped knowing her or loving her or having faith in her. And, instead of drowning in each and every moment, she felt propelled at speed towards a glassy surface, gasping as she broke through. Drawing in huge lungfuls of fresh, clean oxygen. And finding, at last, that it no longer hurt to breathe.

Many people have contributed to this book being published, both personally and professionally. My thanks go to: Paul Binney, for being an inspirational English teacher and helping to start the ball rolling; Nick Sayers and Patricia Parkin, for giving me my first job in publishing, which inspired me to rekindle my writing dreams; Jane Barringer, for teaching me such a lot about editing; Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, who did so much more for me than she realises; Jessica Adams, for reading some early writing and being very kind and encouraging; Tara Wynne, a fantastic agent with a super eye; Stephanie Thwaites and Alice Lutyens, for all their early help; Shuba Krishnan, for the short-lived pseudonym (RIP Eva Miller!); Sylvia Lewis, Justine McLeod and Stuart Moss-crop, for letting me quiz them; Larissa Edwards and the team at Random House, for being so excited about this book; and Sophie Ambrose, who has made this a much better book
than it was originally. I couldn't have wished for a more delightful editor to work with.

To my circle of family and friends who make up my world, whose love and support I truly value, and who have all been very patient while waiting for this book I kept talking about to come to fruition, thanks for all the love and encouragement along the way.

There are a few special people who have gone above and beyond. First of all, my mother, Marian Agombar, who has read countless drafts of my writing and has the grace to look interested when I ask her for yet another piece of advice. You have been wonderful in so many ways. Raymond Agombar, who has known the struggles and loved me through it. Josephine Foster, who can really champion a girl. Karen Elgar, for always being there and making me laugh like no one else can. And my husband, Matt – you are the most amazing gift that I've ever been given, and your strength and support continually replenish me. And finally, thank you Hannah, for lighting up our lives with your smiles and giggles. You make everything worth it.

They should be home.

The thought scratched at Grace's mind as she peered out of a narrow upstairs window. The sun had long-since been banished behind a blanket of thick grey cloud. In front of her, the wild moorland rolled away to be absorbed by the gloom of twilight.

She turned and trailed through the cottage, flicking at wall switches, shaking the shadows from their slumbers and driving them out. She moved as though in a trance, the surroundings still surreal to her, although it had been over a week since they had moved in. The upstairs corridor was poky, and the ceiling so low that she had spent the last few days watching Adam stooping under the beams. The staircase was steep, the wood beneath the carpet uneven, so it was better to tread on the outer edges of each step rather than stumbling into the indentations of myriad footsteps gone before.

She made her careful way downstairs, through the small living room that was littered with packing boxes, and headed into the kitchen, moving again to a window, unable to stop herself from looking out across the sloping moors towards the distant road that wound in and out of sight. A few trees were silhouetted on the horizon, their brittle skeletons bent from regular lashings by the coastal winds. The view before her was utterly still.

She took a deep breath, trying to quell the worry that was winding her nerves into knots. Adam's note had unsettled her. ‘
Won't be long. I have to talk to you when I get back, don't go anywhere. A x
'

Back in the lounge, Grace threw herself into an armchair, one hand brushing over the raked leather where a long-dead cat had once regularly sharpened its claws. She looked around the cottage –
their
cottage, though it was nigh on impossible to think of it that way.

‘It's an incredible gift,' she could still hear Adam enthusing, over and over, when they had first found out his grandparents had bequeathed Hawthorn Cottage to him. ‘It's like fate is giving us a bloody great shove in the back. Our own place, no mortgage, away from the rat race, a chance for Millie to start life among nature rather than believing that trees grow through cracks in the paving. Come on, Gracie, let's give it a go.'

At that point Grace had been overwhelmed by pads and pumps and nappies, and had somehow found herself agreeing with every point he made. Adam was right. Who wanted red-top buses flying past their flat at all hours; noise, lights, people everywhere? This way they could escape their financial pressures for a while. She didn't want to leave Millie
while she was tiny, and go back to her marketing job, with its meagre wage and demanding retail clients. It wasn't her vocation, and to satisfy her demanding boss she often had to stay long after office hours were over.

They couldn't avoid the fact that their priorities were changing. Adam and Grace had begun their relationship to a backdrop of fine restaurants and raucous weekends away with friends. Now, in their thirties, most people they knew had children, their social life had dwindled, and they wouldn't be the first ones to make the move out of the city. Grace began to imagine the possibilities that the cottage in North Yorkshire would present: the chance to cook proper meals for a change, taking Millie for long country walks in the fresh air, and snuggling up to Adam in the evenings. She wouldn't have to give up anything either – she could take the maximum maternity leave she was allowed while they gave it a try. To top it off, they'd be free of the extortionate rent on their tiny two-bedroom flat, so instead of struggling, they might even save. And, as Adam said, if it didn't work out, then they would simply come back.

‘Six months,' she'd agreed. ‘We'll try it for six months, see how we go.'

But as they had packed their belongings, and the moving date drew nearer, something had begun to niggle at her. She couldn't put her finger on what it was that woke her in the early hours, well before the baby stirred. Eventually she had dismissed it as understandable nerves at such a big change. And yet, the nagging voice refused to quieten.

Now, she picked at the torn leather on the armchair as she thought about their first few days in the cottage. The
unsettling silence as she had unpacked boxes. The stillness each time she looked out of the window. The black descent of night; and the relentless ticking and chiming of the grandfather clock in the hall. As she sat there, it was hard to imagine the throngs of people and traffic swirling around central London, an endlessly shifting kaleidoscope of colour and movement. The last week at the cottage had felt like the longest of Grace's life. The six months she had promised Adam now lay interminably before them.

She looked at her watch.
Where the hell were they?
Adam's car was out the front, so they couldn't have gone far. Just the thought of the two of them made her heart quicken. Since Millie had been born her emotions seemed to bubble fierce and strange beneath her skin, threatening to spill over at any moment.

Her mobile rang and she fumbled around for it among the packing debris, snatching at it before it could ring out.

‘Gracie?'

‘Annabel,' she sighed, sitting back down.

‘You could at least pretend to be pleased to hear from me,' her sister grumbled. ‘Or have you forgotten about me already now you've moved to Timbuktu?'

‘Sorry, Bel, I'm getting a bit worried about Adam and Millie – they've been out since I got back from town. They should be back by now.'

Annabel laughed. ‘Grace, you're such a worry wart. Adam's probably chatting over a fencepost somewhere. You know he has to show Millie off to everyone. Stop panicking. Now, tell me when you're coming back – you can't become a country bumpkin forever. I miss you too much.'

Grace smiled at that. ‘You still don't believe that I've moved away, do you? Come and see us, Bel. You never know, you might like it here.'

‘So you're planning on staying then?'

‘Yes,' Grace said, as emphatically as she could manage. She had never felt the need to pretend to Annabel before, but she was determined to give this move a chance. In truth, she missed her sister terribly, knew the feeling was mutual, and was afraid that Annabel would exploit any opportunity she saw to encourage them back to London.

‘Grace? Are you listening to me?'

She tuned back in to the voice on the other end of the line.

‘Sorry, what were you saying?'

‘I was asking you to tell me just what Yorkshire has that London doesn't?'

‘Well, fresh air, for a start? And you can move without someone knocking you over and then swearing at you.'

‘Okay, okay,' Annabel acquiesced. ‘Well, at least I don't have to see you and Adam wandering around with soppy grins on your faces quite so often. It can get pretty sickening after a while, you know.'

Grace ignored the jibe. ‘Come for a visit, Bel – we've got a pub!'

‘Hmmm. I guess I might have to if you won't come back. London misses you, though. I miss you.'

‘You shouldn't have helped me pack everything up then.'

‘I know, I'm my own worst enemy.'

Grace smiled again distractedly as Annabel chattered away, getting up to gaze once more through the kitchen
window. All was quiet. She walked slowly to the front of the cottage and glanced out into the dusky garden.

There was a dark shape on her doorstep. She couldn't quite see it at this angle, or make out much in the shadows. She frowned, listening to Annabel reporting on her week as she headed to the front door. Once there, she twisted the key in the lock, pulled it open and stopped in shock.

In front of her was Millie's pram. She peered inside, to find her ten-week-old daughter fast asleep, her cheeks rosy and cold, her tiny chest rising and falling steadily underneath the tightly tucked woollen coverlet.

Grace ran her fingers gently over her daughter's forehead, then glanced around and said, ‘Adam?'

No one answered. She waited, watching her short breaths bursting into the frosty night air. She called a little louder, ‘Adam, where are you?'

Silence. Then she heard a small voice saying. ‘Grace?
Grace?
'

She looked down absently at the phone in her hand. She lifted it up to hear Annabel's voice, alarmed. ‘Grace, what's going on?'

‘I just found Millie asleep in her pram on the front doorstep,' Grace said, her confusion growing with every word.

‘So they're back then. See, I told you it would be fine.'

Grace stared out into the deepening darkness. ‘I'm not sure, Annabel. It's only Millie here. There's no sign of Adam.'

‘He must be caught up with something – he'll be there in a second, I'm sure,' Annabel reassured her.

But he wasn't.