Chapter 30 #2
Juliet blinked, tried to arrange the expression on her face into something that wasn’t hurt. Grief. “But you couldn’t.” The words fell into the stillness of the room like stones, rippling the heavy silence and then disappearing. Neither of them spoke for several long minutes.
“I was young and alone when I had you,” Fiona finally said.
“My family had cut me off completely for getting pregnant. My father wouldn’t even speak to me after I told him.
He never wanted to see you, and my mother only saw you once, when you were a few days old.
” She pressed her lips together, and for a second Juliet felt a flicker of sympathy for her mother’s plight.
“They both died when you were little, anyway. And as for when you were born . . . it was a hard delivery, and you weren’t an easy baby.
” She held up a hand even though Juliet hadn’t said anything.
“I know, I know. These aren’t excuses. I know I can’t excuse .
. .” She paused, and then, taking a deep breath, continued.
“I’m just trying to explain how it was. How alone I felt.
And I thought I’d be able to keep on at university, but I couldn’t.
There weren’t the child care options available as there are these days, and I didn’t have the money.
My family was never going to help me. So I ended up living on government benefits and feeling as if my life had ended.
And yes, I started to resent you. I’m sorry if that makes me selfish and cruel and what have you, but that’s how it was. ” Fiona broke off and looked away.
Juliet felt no sympathy. If it had been any other woman facing such a dire predicament, poor and pregnant and alone, she would have surely felt compassion and sorrow.
But with Fiona she didn’t. She couldn’t.
“I understand how you could feel that way at first,” she finally said, keeping her voice level and choosing her words with care.
“But you more or less ignored me for my whole childhood. If you couldn’t get over your resentment, you should have done something. Sought help, or given me up.”
“I wasn’t ignoring you on purpose.”
Juliet stared at her in disbelief. “Are you joking?” she demanded. “You barely spoke to me. You never came to anything at school—”
“You were so independent,” Fiona protested. “You never asked me to come. It seemed you didn’t need me.”
“I was a child,” Juliet shot back. “You were my mother. Of course I needed you.”
Fiona closed her eyes. Her face looked gray and drawn. “Look, I know I can’t pretend our relationship was normal, but as time went on, it became easier for me to believe it was. To just . . . coexist together.”
“And Lucy?” Juliet asked after a moment. “Why did you have her?”
Fiona opened her eyes. “Because I wanted to get it right a second time. I know I failed you, Juliet, and I’m sorry. I failed Lucy too, in a different way. I’m not a maternal person. I suppose I shouldn’t have had children at all.”
“But you did,” Juliet burst out. “And that should have changed how you acted—”
“Yes.” Fiona nodded wearily. “I suppose it should have.” She didn’t say anything more, and Juliet stared at her, at the sandy hair that was the same as hers and Lucy’s, but now streaked with silver.
At the gray eyes, even the slightly crooked nose.
Both sisters looked like Fiona. Why hadn’t her mother been able to see it?
Why hadn’t she been able to push past the tragedy and heartache, and love the child she’d been given, the child she’d chosen to keep?
Maybe it really had been impossible for Fiona; maybe she just hadn’t tried. Either way it didn’t really matter.
“So that’s it?” Juliet said. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“I don’t expect you to understand—”
“No, you do,” Juliet cut her off, her voice hardening.
“You expect me to understand and absolve you. And Lucy too, although that probably never seemed difficult to you, since she went trotting back to Boston to take care of you.” She shook her head slowly.
“I think you’re the most selfish woman I’ve ever known.
You could have tried just a little over the years.
You could have reached out to me, even to explain why you couldn’t reach out more—”
“Was I supposed to explain to a child that her father was a rapist?” Fiona asked, her voice hardening too.
“I’m thirty-seven. I think you could have found the right time to tell me.”
“I didn’t see the point when you were an adult. We didn’t have a relationship.”
“At least you’re honest about that.” She drew a deep breath. “I don’t know what you could have done when I was young, but I’ll tell you this. Anything, no matter how small, would have been better than what you did, which was bloody nothing.”
Fiona rose from the chair; with shock Juliet realized she was actually angry. “I fed you. I clothed you—”
“Am I supposed to applaud?”
“I gave you two hundred and fifty thousand pounds—”
“You can’t pretend that was anything but a payoff.”
“Maybe it was,” Fiona answered evenly. “But it was something. And you never even said thank you.”
“Maybe that’s because you’d never said sorry,” Juliet snapped back. “When I called you on your birthday five years ago, you hung up. How do you think that made me feel?”
Fiona sank back into her chair. “You surprised me—”
“So you should have got yourself together and called back.”
“It was easier to pretend you hadn’t called at all.”
“Right. Easier.” Juliet nodded. “I get where you’re coming from, Fiona. Completely.” She turned away, everything in her so tight and tense she felt as if she might snap. From behind her she heard Fiona stand up.
“Do you want me to leave?”
Did she? Her mother had come all this way, and for what? To offer up excuses? “You can stay,” she said without turning around. “For Lucy’s sake. But I suppose we’ll just ignore each other as always. The bedroom at the top of the stairs is free.”
Fiona was silent for a moment. Then Juliet heard the squeak of her chair and the sound of her mother leaving the kitchen. She let out her breath in a rush and bowed her head, her hands clutching the rail of the Aga. Upstairs a door closed softly.
In one abrupt movement Juliet turned from the Aga and stalked out of the kitchen.
She yanked on her boots, grabbed her coat, and headed out into the freezing night.
It was dark and moonless; she hadn’t brought a flashlight, so she stumbled down the track to the only place she could go, the only place she wanted to be. Peter’s house.
Through the window she could see that he was alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee and going over accounts, when Juliet hammered on the door.
“Juliet—” He caught her in his arms as she practically fell through the door. “My God, what’s wrong?”
“My mother,” she said, and realized her teeth were chattering, and not just from the cold. She felt cold inside, cold with the shock of having her mother come here, and all the awful things she’d said.
“Your mother?” Peter led her to the table, then went for the whiskey. Juliet downed it in one fiery gulp.
“This is becoming a habit,” she joked feebly as she placed the glass on the table. Her hand trembled and the glass nearly fell. Peter steadied it.
“What’s happened with your mother?”
“She’s just come to bloody Cumbria.” She let out a wild laugh and then buried her face in her hands.
“And she told me why she never wanted or loved me.” She looked up at him between her fingers, suddenly terrified that this would change his opinion of her, and yet knowing she had to tell someone, and that she wasn’t ready for it to be Lucy.
“She was raped, Peter. My father was a rapist.”
Peter stared at her for a long moment, a moment that felt endless in its silence, and then wordlessly he covered her hand with his own.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m so sorry.” Juliet didn’t say anything. She didn’t think she could.
He squeezed her hand and Juliet sniffed. “I feel like it changes who I am,” she said. “I know it shouldn’t, but . . .”
“I understand that, Juliet.” He hesitated and then said, his voice matter-of-fact, “My father used to hit me.” Juliet blinked and Peter continued. “I don’t mean the odd slap. Proper beatings, with his belt. I used to hate him. I dreamed about killing him.”
She could not imagine Peter dreaming about killing anyone, but neither could she imagine him being beaten as a boy by William. “But . . . ,” she began, although she didn’t know what she was going to say.
“It’s why my brother, David, left. After my mum died, I was going to leave too, but I was tied to this land and farming’s all I’ve known. So I stayed, and then my father got sick, and I was the only person who could care for him.”
“Are you telling me this because . . . ,” Juliet began uncertainly, and Peter filled it in for her.
“A lot of reasons, I suppose. Because you don’t have to be like your parents. I certainly will never hit my child.”
“You’re the most gentle man I know, Peter.”
“And seeing my dad looking so weak and helpless now, it’s made me think.
He’s just a man. He made some mistakes, some bloody great big ones, but in the end he’s just a human being, same as me.
And there were a few good times, amidst all the bad.
” He squeezed her shoulders gently. “Were there any good times with your mother?”
Were there? Had the bad memories overwhelmed any good ones? “I don’t know,” Juliet admitted shakily. “I can’t remember. But, Peter, I don’t think I can forgive her.”
“Of course you can’t,” he said with a nod. “Not now. Not yet. But one day, for your sake as much as hers, I hope you can.”
Juliet searched his face, seeing only acceptance in his eyes. “You’re a good man, Peter Lanford.”
He smiled at that. “No more than any other, I reckon.”
“I don’t know if I’m as good as you.”
“Then I’m glad this isn’t a competition.” He pulled her gently towards her feet, and then put his arms around her. She pressed her cheek against the rough wool of his jumper, felt the steady thud of his heart. “Give yourself time, Juliet. You’re as hard on yourself as you are on your mother.”
“So you think I’m hard on her.”
He laughed softly, a rasping sound. “I don’t care about your mother. I care about you.” And then he touched a finger to her chin and tilted her face up so he could kiss her, a whisper across her mouth, and Juliet felt the tightness inside her loosen, just a little.
It was a start, she realized, and kissed Peter back. It was a start.