The Mother's Lies Read online

  ‘Well,’ she began, ‘the doctor can’t make Nana Barbara better straight away. But he did explain everything they’re going to do to try to make her better. She’ll be having an operation soon. Do you know what that is?’

  Barney shook his head solemnly.

  ‘They give you some medicine so you go to sleep and can’t feel anything and then they open you up and have a look inside and try to take out whatever it is that’s making you ill. When they are done, they stitch you back together again as good as new.’

  ‘So then will she be better?’

  ‘Well, then she’ll have to recover from the operation, because it’s very tiring. Then they’ll give her some special medicine. And then she’ll hopefully be better.’

  In fact, the prognosis had not been particularly rosy. Mr Eklund, the Swedish surgeon who would be operating on Barbara, had gently informed them that the biopsy had confirmed a malignancy in the left breast, and there were pre-cancerous changes in the right one, too. He couldn’t be sure how far it had spread before operating, but he thought the most likely scenario was a Stage 3 diagnosis, which would give her, very roughly, a 50/50 chance after chemotherapy. It was a lot to take on board.

  ‘Shall I give Nana one of my drawings?’

  ‘I think that would be a lovely thing to do, darling. Look, I’m just going to call in here …’ They were passing an out-of-town shopping place. The parking was easy and the kids would tolerate a quick trip in. ‘I want to get Nana a new nightdress for the hospital.’

  When they got back, Barbara’s delight seemed out of proportion to the gift.

  ‘That was so thoughtful of you, Helen. You’ve really cheered me up.’

  ‘And I’ve called work – the kids and I will stay until after the operation. No arguments. Getting you through this is the most important thing at the moment.’

  The glisten on Barbara’s eyes was as close as Helen had ever seen her to tears, and the thought of it almost made her well up herself. This Barbara was so different from the Barbara of last night, so hostile and cold over a stupid thing like that card. But then her mum always had been a conundrum. You never knew what you were going to get with her. That way you didn’t get too close.

  She had plenty of practical issues to worry about, what with trying to hand work stuff over remotely and making a list of the things she’d need to buy for the kids, but still, somehow, Helen found the image of the green envelope was bothering her. She tried to blame it on tiredness, or perhaps her brain was looking for some sort of distraction from the hideous news at the hospital. But what could it be and why would Barbara lie about it? She kept drifting back to those questions.

  Much later, when everyone else was in bed, Helen decamped to the back room to reply to some work emails and stuck on the TV for a bit of background noise. It was only when she finished and went to switch the TV off that she noticed the slim edge of green pushed to the bottom of a pile of papers on the sideboard.

  She slid the top section of the pile aside and, sure enough, the green line turned out to be the edge of the small envelope that she’d seen on the doormat. The front simply said ‘Barbara’, written in a nondescript hand with, as she’d thought, black felt tip. The letter looked as though it had never been sealed, and the paper, cheap and green, matching the envelope, slid out easily.

  HELLO BARBARA.

  CANCER IS TOO GOOD FOR YOU.

  DON’T WORRY – I’LL BE WITH YOU ALL THE WAY.

  JUST LIKE YOU DESERVE.

  JENNIFER

  Helen’s hands started to shake; the harsh New York laughter from the chat show on television seemed to be taunting her. This was a joke, surely? Yet, on the other hand, it was no kind of joke at all.

  She reread the thing twice or more, but her mind couldn’t process the words. Who was Jennifer? And what could she mean? Whatever it was, the intention behind it was obviously malevolent. But could it be serious? She started to look at the note itself, mechanically noting the flimsy copier paper, the black felt tip, the careful capitals with a few wobbles – she guessed that the author was using their wrong hand. But none of it took her any further.

  After a few moments, the credits music startled her into action. She refolded the note and replaced it in the envelope. Once she’d tucked it away, back under a building society statement, she could almost believe she’d imagined it. She focused in turn on the graduation pictures on the wall and the wedding-present china shepherdess that Barbara hated. This was the normal world. It was more than normal – it was the world of dull, petty suburbia that Helen had escaped. It had nothing to do with threatening notes from anonymous villains. She resolved to confront Barbara again the next day. No matter how frosty or secretive her mother could be, she couldn’t simply brush off something like this.

  December 2014

  Helen

  The thing about Darren was he’d always had a knack for giving people what they didn’t know they wanted. It occurred to Helen later that she probably shouldn’t have been so shocked when he finally managed to turn that talent into hard cash. Perhaps the more surprising thing, she mused, as she tried on her third little black dress and frowned hopelessly at the mirror again, was that it had taken him quite so long. Austerity ground on, and yet here she was, getting ready for a blowout Christmas party that would show the world just how damn successful Darren Harrison was.

  The man himself, immaculate in Paul Smith, stuck his head round the bedroom door.

  ‘Are you getting there, Hels? The car will be here in twenty.’

  Apparently they were too grand for minicabs these days.

  ‘Okay, thanks, I’m just going to swap this for my black one.’

  ‘I thought you’d got something new during the week?’ His brow creased slightly, with just the hint of a frown.

  ‘I didn’t find anything.’

  The truth was, she’d only managed an hour to dash into a couple of local shops and, ten months after giving birth to Alys, she still found trying clothes on a miserable experience.

  The business was called Date Night. Darren had started putting on these ironic telly-themed singles nights, having got the idea after watching one too many cheap nostalgic box sets. It was the seventh or eighth golden business brainwave he’d had, whilst her dull but steadily more lucrative career in financial-services HR supported them both. Finally, this one had stuck.

  In a year, she’d gone from being a career girl in Shoreditch to maternity leave in Chiswick. Going back to work after Barney had felt like a return to civilisation. After Alys, though, Darren pointed out that he could pay for everything now – all the holidays they could handle. Wasn’t it better, he asked, for her to be less stressed and for the kids to be raised by their parents rather than strangers? She didn’t speak to him for three days after that and at the end of her first day back in the office she drank Prosecco with her friend Amy Stretton. Amy was in CID with the Met Police and, back then, still single. She could be relied upon to opine at length about all men being bastards.

  The dress she had settled on for tonight was from the Shoreditch days. It was black, and forgivingly stretchy – although faded from too many washes. Well, surely it would be dark at the party anyway? She added a pair of silver earrings, looked in the mirror and smiled, feeling, finally, like she was herself.

  ‘The car’s outside, Hels.’

  ‘I’m coming!’

  She quickly kissed her babies – they’d both been asleep for a while – then she popped into the front room to let her parents know they were off. She’d managed to persuade them down for a rare pre-Christmas visit and then Darren had casually informed her about the party. If she was being honest with herself, she’d be more comfortable booking the usual babysitter.

  Darren was jiggling his keys against his hip as she came into the hallway; he looked her up and down but said nothing. His smile was flat.

  *

  Although it was after one a.m. by the time they got back, Barbara was not yet in bed. Inste
ad they found her tucked in a corner of the sofa under the glow of a single lamp, peering at a laptop she had balanced on the arm of the sofa. Her dark bun had always given her something of the air of a ballerina, and she unfurled gracefully from her pose as they came into the room.

  ‘I hope you didn’t stay up for our sakes?’ Darren’s words were polite, but there was something querulous in his tone. He spoke more to the decanter and glass in his hand than to his mother-in-law.

  ‘Of course not, don’t worry.’ Barbara’s own voice was light. ‘I’m doing coursework – the time ran away with me.’ Helen and Darren had both been mildly amused when she’d announced a couple of years earlier that she was taking an OU course in computing, but although she’d initially shrugged it off as just a tactic to stay one step ahead of the endless cuts and redundancies in local newspapers, she seemed to have really taken to it.

  ‘Were the kids okay?’ Helen asked.

  Barbara looked momentarily blank, as though she had possibly forgotten about them, but then nodded. ‘Not a peep out of either of them. All fine.’

  ‘Well, I’m going up,’ announced Darren, raising his whisky to them. Helen knew she should join him; after all, she had been the one who had insisted on leaving at the end of the party, rather than heading out into the West End, where many of the guests were going to continue their evening. Now she was home, though, she felt suddenly awake. And desperate to take off her heels and have a cup of tea. Barbara declined her offer and Darren slunk off.

  ‘Good night?’ Barbara asked as she shut down the laptop.

  Helen shrugged. Had it been? She found it exhausting, having to keep track of the employees, the investors, the suppliers, the hangers-on and God knows who else. Over the years, she’d shared little of the day-to-day concerns of her life with her mother – taking her lead from Barbara herself no doubt. She wasn’t now about to start dissecting her insecurities about Darren and how she feared the business was changing him.

  To be fair, the night had improved when Darren – probably irritated with her defensiveness – had insisted that she knock back a couple of glasses of champagne and led her onto the dance floor, swinging her around to Pharrell Williams. She knew they’d looked good together; they always did. And in the moment, she was ‘Happy’, just like the song said. The dancing made her feel less self-conscious about whether people were questioning what on earth he was doing with her.

  Sometimes she wondered if he ever had crossed the line, and mixed play with the work he was so devoted to. She’d asked him about it once and he’d laughed. He said he’d spent thirty-five years with nothing to recommend him but his smile and his wits; he wouldn’t want to be with the sort of woman who might want him now that he had a belly and grey temples and a bit of cash. That was a couple of years ago, though. Back then he wouldn’t have slunk off to bed with a whisky. On the other hand, back then she’d probably have mustered the enthusiasm for a nightcap elsewhere.

  ‘Well?’ Her mother was still looking at her expectantly.

  ‘Sorry, I drifted off a bit – a bit woozy I’m afraid. It was lovely. The venue was spectacular.’

  ‘I’m glad you had fun,’ Barbara said, making Helen feel about seventeen again. Her eyes were on the laptop as it went through its shutting-down processes. It seemed Helen had no need to worry about her mother trying to get her to open up.

  ‘So how’s the coursework going?’ Helen asked, more to stop her own mind whirring than for any other reason. ‘I thought you were finishing up with that last spring?’

  ‘Yes, I did, but then I signed up for some of the degree-level modules. It’s fascinating, actually.’

  ‘It’s a shame you didn’t get into it when you were younger – you could have made a fortune.’

  Barbara laughed lightly. ‘Yes, it would have been nice to have had the chance. But never too late, as they say – I’ve got a few little projects I’m dreaming up. Anyway, that’s my work done. I think I’ll get to bed.’

  ‘Night, Mum.’

  But Helen’s mind had drifted back to the dance floor, to the moment when a slow Sam Smith number had come on and she’d insisted that she was exhausted and needed to go back to their table for a drink. Darren had nodded and they made their way back across to the low table where their bottle of champagne still waited, half full.

  One of the new regional managers glided over, in painfully high sandals that pushed her chest forward.

  ‘Darren! You two were amazing on the dance floor. You kept that quiet!’

  ‘Louise …’ He clasped her shoulder warmly.

  ‘Lauren.’

  ‘Lauren, of course, so sorry. This is my wife, Helen.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She brushed his hand, as if to smooth away his mistake, laughing loudly. ‘There’s so many people here!’

  She’d cornered them for the next ten minutes – despite Darren’s smooth attempts to move her on – sharing gossip and gushing compliments.

  If he were going to get involved with someone at work, someone like Lauren would be last on the list. So why was the sound of her grating laughter continuing to rattle around Helen’s head as she failed to get to sleep?

  July 2017

  Helen

  In the end, she didn’t get any chance to mention the note on Saturday. Neil whisked them all off to a theme park for the day, then dinner at the local Italian. ‘Take our minds off it all,’ he said, repeatedly. Helen grinned for his sake, as much as for Barney and Alys. Barbara’s enjoyment, she was sure, was just as manufactured. The thought gave her an unfamiliar sense of camaraderie with her mother – for as long as she could remember, she’d found herself siding with her dad in the face of Barbara’s quirks and moods.

  On Sunday morning, however, she woke up thinking about the note. It had lurked through her dreams, which had danced from Darren, to her children, then her parents; all unformed and fast-fading glimpses. Each encounter had played out on the sickly green landscape of the notepaper – those black capitals always there but never in focus. In those giddy predawn hours, something fearful woke in her belly, and, once woken, it shifted and clawed about inside her like a rat.

  She was still turning the words of the note over in her mind as the grey dawn gradually crept round the edges of the heavy velvet curtains. They were cast-offs from Neil’s sister – Aunt Vicky – given away when she moved to Málaga, to replace the yellow ones that had been up since Helen was small. Good enough for the spare room, her parents must have decided, even though the size wasn’t quite right. She’d got used to sleeping here with Darren over the years. Now she was sleeping alone in the big old bed, with no one else to see the patterns the morning light made around the badly fitting curtains.

  If only she could show Darren the note. Her Darren, not the new, arm’s-length, polite-chat-about-the-weather Darren who made her skin crawl. It wasn’t that she thought he’d have all the answers, just that she wasn’t used to having no one to share things with. They’d met at school and grown up together as an ‘us’. Suddenly Helen had to work everything out as ‘me’. And everything was bloody tough.

  At first, her mind had tricked itself – he was on a business trip, or working late – God knew she was used to not having him around. But now it was more than six weeks, and the reality, the permanence, of his absence was becoming undeniable. All the more so since that awful call with her dad. The old Darren might not have been around when the au pair was sick or when she needed to decide on a holiday booking, but she could be confident that if the world fell apart he’d be there to catch her. Now it had and he was content to see her in free fall.

  Gradually, the lumpy shadow-scape revealed itself as her assorted bits of luggage, strewn with clothes and toys and everything else that she’d not had the will to try to tidy up. The green dizzy dreams and the clawing rat seemed to shrivel in the light. It was too bizarre. To be looking at the fresh baked-bean-juice stains on her dressing gown, or the cascade of children’s books erupting from a Gruffalo backpac
k, and thinking that somebody out there was happy her mother could be dying, that somebody out there wanted Barbara to suffer.

  Error, as the laptop would say. Switch it off and on again. If only she could.

  She kept coming up with improbable explanations – the note was a prop from a murder-mystery party, or a handwriting test, or Barbara had written it herself as some sort of weird displacement activity. But why the mention of cancer? And why had it been on the doormat when Helen arrived? There was no simple answer to explain that away.

  Finally she heard Alys start up her morning whimper, which, in her usual way, would soon become a chatter and then, shortly after, a wail. As Helen quit the stale bed and pulled on the bean-juice-stained dressing gown, the demons scuttled back to their dusty recesses. She pushed the curtains back, then, still fumbling with the belt of her dressing gown, she headed upstairs.

  *

  Helen found the blue dress later that morning, when she was going through some stuff in her old room. She’d hoped that one of the dusty boxes stashed under the bed would hold something that might keep the kids occupied for a while.

  Of course, she’d packed for the journey in a hurry, with no real idea of how long they’d be staying, and the flaws in her organisation – no charger for Barney’s tablet, DVD boxes missing their discs, and Jess the Doll’s tragically deficient wardrobe – were now becoming woefully apparent.

  It must have been twenty years since Helen had seen that dress. She knew the story of Neil buying it for Barbara on honeymoon in Glasgow and the shimmer of blue – more eastern Med than western Scotland – was instantly recognisable. She found the straps and held it up, letting the layers of satin and chiffon swing free. There were details she hadn’t noticed before, or didn’t remember: the old-fashioned label, sewn in by hand, the slight discolouration under the arms. Was there a breath of Barbara’s perfume, or was that just Helen’s imagination?