‘No. He’s left, Jessica. He said he can’t cope with any of this any more – that he’s sorry, but he needs a fresh start. He’s moved to London, and he’s asked us not to contact him again. He thinks it would be for the best for everyone if he just … disappeared. We don’t know where he’s living, or his new phone number, and he asked us to say goodbye to you. To wish you the best of luck, and to tell you that he hopes you feel better soon.’
Jess has her head perched on one side, like a bird listening very hard, and she is rocking slightly, backwards and forwards, frowning as she goes over the words and tries to try and make sense of them. She opens her mouth to ask another question, but her mother takes hold of her hand and rubs her fingers briskly.
‘No point asking me anything else, dear – I don’t have the answers. He’s gone, that’s all I know, and he won’t be coming back. But don’t worry, I’m still here, and your dad, and we’ll always look after you – you know that don’t you?’
‘Joe’s gone? Joe’s not coming to visit?’
‘That’s right, sweetheart. He’s sorry about it, but he won’t be coming back. He’s gone for good.’
‘Gone for good,’ Jess repeats slowly, blinking at her mother with huge eyes, processing the new information.
When she reacts, it starts quietly, with a single tear slowly rolling from the corner of one eye. Then the tears flow from both eyes. Then the rocking becomes more pronounced, and the fingers pulling at the fleece of the dressing gown start to tear and tug and twist.
A high-pitched noise comes from Jess’s lips, almost like a whistle, with breathy pauses between while she sucks in air. She is panicking, and this is how it sounds on the outside. The whistling noise gets louder, and the rocking gets so frantic she topples forward and falls from the bench.
She lies on the concrete, long hair twisted around her face. Her legs twitch, and the whistle evolves into a shout, and the shout transforms into a scream.
Ruth is on her feet, staring down at this writhing mass of limbs and hair and tears and snot and wailing. At her daughter. At her baby girl, destroyed.
She has no idea what to do, especially when the other woman out here – Martina? – joins in with the wailing, like it’s some kind of infectious aural disease.
She crouches down, reaches out to hold Jess, or at least to shield her head as it jerks and thrashes. She is pushed out of the way by the arrival of two of the nurses. They wear a grey uniform that makes them look more like guards, with heavy belts and thick-soled shoes. One of them scoops Jess up as though she is weightless, talking to her in a no-nonsense voice and not looking at all upset or horrified at what is happening. As though she’s seen it all before, and is neither moved nor startled by it.
Between them the two women get Jess upright, and half-carry half-walk her back inside, where she can be checked and treated and if necessary restrained.
‘Come on now, Jess, love, you’ll be all right,’ one says as they drag her through the doorway, still screaming. ‘Should have known you were too good to be true …’
Ruth is left outside, trembling and humiliated and filled with both remorse and determination. She picks up her handbag, smooths down her skirt, and tells herself that everything will be OK. Everything will settle. Everything will work out for the best.
Chapter 9
Michael is, understandably, somewhat taken aback by all of this. He clasps his gin to his chest, reminding me of an elderly lady in a black and white film clutching her pearls when she’s had a piece of shocking news about the vicar’s wife.
‘Shit,’ he says, after a while. ‘That’s … really bad. I mean, I always thought of Aunt Ruth as this distant-but-decent person, you know? She wouldn’t exactly shower you with kisses or do anything outrageous like join Facebook, but she was … OK, deep down. One of those people you’d say “her heart’s in the right place” about. And now she seems a bit … evil? Like, makes-Cruella-de-Vil-seem-sentimental evil?’
‘Well, as this is the day of her funeral, I’d like to argue with that,’ I reply, as calmly as I can. ‘Out of … respect, love, who knows? Today, I’d really like her not to be evil – I’d like to remember her differently, but now I’m struggling. I’m struggling to even be rational. Maybe you can help. Maybe you can be the rational one, Michael.’
He snorts out an uncomfortable laugh, then notices my expression, his eyes wide.
‘Oh! You’re actually serious … OK. Well. Right … maybe he did leave, and maybe he did say he wanted nothing more to do with you. Maybe she wasn’t being evil, she was just being honest.’
‘Then why did he send all these cards and letters and postcards?’
‘Maybe he changed his mind.’
‘Then why did she hide them?’
‘Because she’s … maybe she’s … perhaps … oh I don’t know, evil?’ he suggests, throwing his hands up in defeat. ‘No! Hang on! Maybe she hid them because she thought it was for the best. That if he’d left you once, he’d leave you again, and you were too fragile to handle that. Maybe because he walked out on you once, in your hour of utter need, she knew he couldn’t be trusted, and when he got into contact again she … made a unilateral, but understandable, decision to keep it from you?’
I nod, and turn over the concept in my mind, poking and prodding it for flaws, testing its durability, examining it like you would a melon in a supermarket.
‘I suppose,’ I concede, ‘that that wouldn’t really be evil, would it? She saw the way I reacted when he left that first time, how much damage it did, and decided to try and protect me from a repeat. That could be what happened …’
‘Except …’ says Michael, frowning as he speaks, teeth clamping down on lips.
‘What? Except what? I don’t like “except”.’
‘Except it seems a long time to hide something, doesn’t it? Once you were well again, and strong enough to cope, why didn’t she tell you then? You got through your dad’s death. You started working. There was a period of time between that and her strokes where she could have told you. So I suppose I’m just wondering – why didn’t she give you this box so you could decide for yourself how you felt about it all? There could be all kinds of answers – like her planning to and running out of time. I mean, nobody expects to have a stroke, do they, so maybe it caught her unawares and then she couldn’t communicate properly? But … I don’t know. I am still wondering why she didn’t tell you, to be honest. And I know we’ve not exactly had a rummage, but there seemed to be a lot – which begs the question: how long was he writing for?’
I glare at Michael, even though I know it’s unfair. Even though I know I asked him to be the rational one. Even after her strokes my mother could, in her own limited way, communicate – especially with me. It was mainly the basics – bodily needs, TV schedules, requests for pain relief – but I could understand her.
Perhaps it was too hard for her to deal with a subject this complex, or perhaps the damage done when her brain cells were starved of blood meant that she couldn’t even remember it. The frustration is that I will simply never know.