Read The Things We Never Said Online
Authors: Susan Elliot Wright
The Things We Never Said (25 page)
She follows him to the door, where he shakes Sam’s hand and then turns towards her. She looks at her son, standing at her front door, almost filling the frame, and she fixes the picture in her mind so that she can remember it properly later.
‘Thank you,’ he says. ‘It’s a lot to take in, and I’m not sure . . . well, I just don’t know how to feel at the moment.’
There is an awkward moment when she wonders whether she too should shake his hand. He appears equally ill at ease, but then he leans forward and kisses her cheek so fleetingly that she wonders whether she imagined it. He’s looking at her; she doesn’t know what to say.
‘One more thing,’ he says. ‘That man, Jack; do I look like him?’
‘No,’ she lies. ‘Not a bit.’
As the door closes behind him, she feels tears prick her eyes. She collapses into Sam’s arms like a puppet with its strings cut. ‘Will he forgive me, do you think?’
‘Och, shush.’ He strokes her hair. ‘There’s no’ anything to forgive. You were sick; a distraught, grieving mother. Your boy can see that, for certain.’
Maggie holds onto Sam and they stand there in the hallway for several minutes. She is so wrung out that she is half-expecting one of her episodes, but despite a sharpening of sound and colour, her breathing remains steady and her mind stays in the here and now.
‘Do you think I’ll ever see him again?’ she asks Sam without looking up.
He kisses her forehead. ‘I don’t know, hen.’
CHAPTER FIFTY
Before going home, Jonathan walks down to the water’s edge and stands there looking out to sea. Several minutes pass, or perhaps it’s hours, he really can’t tell, but by the time he becomes aware once more of the hiss and pull of the waves on the shingle, the sky has darkened and bloated rain clouds are gathering on the horizon.
*
He picks Fiona up from Lucy’s, and of course she wants to know everything. Where does he start? ‘Well,’ he says. ‘She’s not hard or heartless. In fact, she’s had a pretty tough time.’
Fiona nods. ‘What’s the story?’
‘It seems I’m the result of . . .’ Again the word threatens to knock him sideways. ‘It turns out that . . . that she was raped.’
Fiona’s hand flies up to her mouth. ‘Jonno, my God!’
Then he tells her the rest, and she listens without interrupting, then shakes her head slowly. ‘The poor woman,’ she says. She looks again at the photograph of the two babies in the snow, runs her finger over it. ‘So this is your sister.’
Jonathan nods. ‘My twin.’ He too looks at the picture for a long time.
Later, when he goes downstairs to make something to eat – Fiona fancies salty eggs and buttered toast – he notices the ‘messages’ button on the phone is flashing. He dials 1571: two new messages, both from his mother. She wants him to call back, but he can’t face her questions now; he’ll call first thing tomorrow.
‘Are you going to see her again, do you think?’ Fiona stifles a yawn.
‘No. Maybe. Oh, I don’t know.’ There’s a pause. ‘Fi,’ he says. ‘I’m not sure I’ve done the right thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I told her about Hutchinson, that he’s looking for him – for Jack. And I gave her his number.’
Fiona props herself up on her elbow and looks at him. ‘What did she say?’
‘She didn’t. She just looked at the piece of paper, then put it behind her clock.’
‘She wasn’t upset?’
He shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. But was it, I don’t know,
appropriate
? Considering she didn’t report it at the time?’
‘I don’t know, but all you’ve done is given her the number; it’s her choice now.’
‘I suppose so.’ He leans back on the pillow, exhausted suddenly. He tries not to think about what happened to his mother. Instead, he thinks about his lost sister, pictures her toothy smile and pudgy arms. In his imagination, she’s sitting on the beach, watching the waves. He walks across the pebbles and lifts her into his arms. Now he imagines his own baby, not yet born but already loved more than he knew was possible. The baby reaches out, and as he gathers its soft little body to him, he has the sensation of stepping back into himself.
He doesn’t realise at first that he’s been asleep, so it takes him a moment to register that the telephone’s ringing. It feels like the middle of the night, and as he hurries downstairs, he’s aware of his heart thudding.
‘Hello?’
‘Darling, it’s your mother. I—’
‘Mum, what is it? What’s wrong?’ But as he says it, he sees that it’s not as late as he thought. Not yet ten, in fact.
‘Nothing’s wrong, dear. Rather the reverse, in fact. Anyway, how did it go today?’
His heartbeat is slowing now. ‘Fine. Well, it was . . . it went fine. It’s a long story but I’ll tell you all about it tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I
am
glad,’ she says. ‘I really am, Jonathan. You know that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Mum. I do know. And thanks.’ He is about to say goodnight when she continues, ‘Anyway, your father’s solicitors telephoned yesterday. It’ll take a while, of course, to get probate and so forth, but it appears your father did rather well with some of his investments. When everything’s sorted out, you should receive just over forty thousand pounds.’
‘What? Sorry, wha—’
‘I knew you’d be surprised. I didn’t mention it before because I know a lot of shares have fallen and I wasn’t sure how much would be left after everything’s sorted out, but as I say, Mr Windgrove rang and—’
‘Sorry, Mum, I’m not quite clear. Did you say—’
‘Forty thousand! Or just over. Anyway, enough for you to—’
‘Hang on. Surely, I mean, doesn’t it all just go to you?’
‘Oh, yes, the house, the pensions, bonds and so on. But this money was specifically meant for you; he arranged it last year, just after he became ill. And Jonathan,’ her voice softens, ‘I think this will please you: he stipulates that you should spend the money exactly as you like.’
Again he has the strange sensation of being acutely aware of his body; he can feel his clothes – an old t-shirt and boxers – against his skin, and he can feel the air circulating around the bits that aren’t covered. He’s still trying to process what he’s learned about his birth mother, and now Gerald . . . He shivers, even though the house is warm. More revisions.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, darling,’ his mother says, and after a moment, there is a gentle click as she hangs up.
As he climbs the stairs again, he feels as though he can see himself from the outside, as though he’s watching the movement of every joint, the flexing and contracting of every muscle and tendon. After months of feeling ‘not himself’, he is now conscious of being intensely, thoroughly, and absolutely himself; more himself than he has ever been in his entire life.
*
It is well past eight when a finger of early spring sunshine slides through the curtains and wakes him. His first thought is of Gerald. Fiona was deeply asleep when he came back upstairs last night, so she doesn’t know yet; he can hardly take it in himself. He turns over to look at her. She’s awake and sitting up already, her shirt open to reveal her beautifully rounded belly.
‘Look,’ she says. ‘You can see it moving.’
For half a minute or so, he stares in vain at the taut flesh. Then he sees it, a tiny hand or foot, travelling from one side to the other like a little shooting star.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Hastings, June 2009
Maggie picks up the wad of stuff that’s just plopped through the letterbox and takes it into the kitchen. There’s the usual collection of pizza leaflets and junk mail, a couple of bills and a postcard. ‘Look.’ She hands the postcard to Sam. ‘From Don Hutchinson, thanking me for seeing him. What a nice thought. I’m not sure I was any help, though.’
‘Och, come on. Why doubt what the fella says? What you told him tied in with what the other women said. It confirmed where that bastard was and when, so it backed up the information they already had.’
‘I suppose so. But it’s too late to really do any good, isn’t it?’ She’s not sure she’ll ever forgive herself for not telling the police at the time. If she had, maybe Jack wouldn’t have raped those other women.
Sam puts his arms around her. ‘Mr Hutchinson said it’s never too late. And it means those women will know that the man who raped them is no’ around any more. You did well, hen; I’m proud of you. It’s thanks to you that they’re sure it was the same man.’
She sighs. ‘I suppose so.’
Mr Hutchinson said they’d made the original link through Jack’s brother after he was arrested with some other pensioners on a council-tax protest. His DNA showed a close match with what they had on record from the other women – the ones who’d been brave enough to report it. It turns out Jack killed himself in 1987 – stepped in front of a train after his dog was run over, apparently. He’d had a long history of depression, the brother said. Maggie is glad Jack is dead, but a little sorry that it was suicide, even after what he did to her. She has often said she wouldn’t wish depression on her worst enemy, and it seems this is true, given that Jack surely must be her worst enemy. The brother was a perfectly respectable old gentleman, according to Don Hutchinson. Did he know about Jack, Maggie wondered? About what he was, what he did to women? But then she pushed those thoughts back with the memories she’d rather lose among the cobwebs.
She is about to throw the junk mail into the recycling box when a small silvery envelope slips out. It’s addressed to
Maggie and Sam Kielty
. When she opens it, she feels as though a dozen fish are flipping and floundering in her stomach. She hardly dares breathe as she takes out the satiny white card. There is a single, miniature blue footprint on the front. She opens the card and reads the silver lettering inside:
Jonathan and Fiona Robson
are delighted to announce the arrival of
George Edward
Born 4 May at 4.23 am
6lb 3oz
And written by hand underneath:
Jonathan
Maggie’s eyes fill with tears so fast that she has to blink several times before her vision clears. She looks inside the envelope again, and pulls out the photograph of a perfect newborn child, with navy blue eyes and a thatch of golden hair.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My profound gratitude to my editor Clare Hey for her expertise and insightful feedback, especially the ‘lightbulb moment’, and to my agent Kate Shaw for her advice and guidance, and for her inspired suggestion regarding the structure of Maggie’s story. I’d also like to thank Susan Opie, whose eye for detail helped polish the manuscript to a sheen, and everyone at Simon and Schuster for their cheerful enthusiasm and belief in this book.
I owe a great deal to the friends and fellow writers who read sections or whole drafts of the manuscript and offered constructive criticism, encouragement and moral support, not to mention coffee, cake and wine. In particular: Sue Cooper, Rachel Genn, Iona Gunning, Sue Hughes, Neil Reed, Ruby Speechley and Russell Thomas. And a very special thank you to Jane Rogers, whose generous feedback, advice and encouragement kept me going when the going got tough.
In an attempt to get my facts straight, I picked the brains of many generous and knowledgeable people on matters of DNA and police ‘cold case’ procedure. My thanks go to Dave Drabble, Dr Christopher Ford, K.A.C. Sara Longford, John Milne and many others. For medical advice on ‘the bloody scene’, my thanks to Dr Rebecca Davenport. Any remaining errors in these matters are entirely my own.
My research around Maggie’s time in the mental hospital led me to a great deal of fascinating reading, but the book I returned to again was the invaluable
The Female Malady: women, madness and English culture 1830–1980
, by Elaine Showalter.
I am of course deeply grateful to my family for their continued belief in me, and especially to my daughter Emma and my son James, who I think are almost as proud of me as I am of them. But the greatest debt of all is to my husband Francis, for the laughter, the conversation, the ideas and the stories; for having more confidence in me than I had myself, and for his unwavering love and support.
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