Chapter Eighteen
I don’t plan to share my own secrets with Mum.
When I do finally get out of bed and head down to join her in the emptied dining room for a late Saturday breakfast, I go intending to continue keeping it all to myself, just like I did yesterday in A the solitary walks I’ve kept taking in the woods; the strange habit it’s apparently been noted I’ve developed of peering into the sky, frowning at nothing.
Ana even took Mum up to Iris’s room.
Told her about the flares she teased me for imagining on my first night here.
I assumed she’d forgotten all about that.
‘She did,’ says Mum, stirring half a sugar into her tea. ‘At first. But –’ her brow pinches – ‘it’s been preying on her, because of all the rest of it.’
‘Well, it sounds like it made for an interesting conversation at least,’ I say, irritable to my own ears. But it’s horrible thinking of the three of them picking me apart like this whilst I was oblivious upstairs. ‘Have Felix and Ana been talking to Nick too?’
‘Yes,’ says Mum, without apology. ‘And Emma. They care about you, Claude. They’re worried … ’
‘Please.’ I hold up my hands, which are trembling. ‘I can’t keep listening to what a worry I am.’ That banging’s started upstairs again. I don’t want to look at it, in case Mum notices. ‘I really can’t … ’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being a worry, my darling, as long as you’re open to help. But look at you. You’re furious that the people closest to you even want to help.’
‘I’m not furious.’
‘Yes, you are. And Felix said you were extremely anxious about going into Heaton last week.’
‘Of course I was anxious. I’d just had the details of my miscarriage broadcast across the globe.’
‘You don’t need to defend yourself. I’m not attacking you. Far from it. I couldn’t have faced up to that. Not anywhere, and certainly not there.’ She places her spoon on her saucer. ‘I gather you’re going to be filming in the village on Monday.’
‘Yes.’ The banging is really loud, louder than it’s ever been before, and Mum hasn’t so much as glanced at it. ‘They’re closing it all off for the day. It’ll be fine.’ I have no idea if it will be. ‘Just some scenic shots.’
‘Have you been into the village yet?’
‘No, I haven’t had time.’ By an effort of will, I keep my focus on her. ‘I’ve only been to Bramble Lane.’
‘Where you hugged that woman.’
‘Yes,’ I say, distracted, briefly, by the thought of her kindness.
I don’t even know her name. I have looked for her among the women who’ve been standing shoulder to virtual shoulder online (and I’m pleased, I really am, that this mess has at least produced the silver lining of them being able to seek comfort in one another), but she’s remained silent, so I guess is a social media recluse too.
I’ve been worried that someone from the press, or village, might attempt to out her, but, thankfully, no one has.
I’m sure she must be relieved too, and feel even more grateful, now I realize how private she obviously is, that she put herself out to help me the way she did.
‘I actually want to find her,’ I say. ‘Thank her.’
‘Maybe you could talk to her about it all. It might help you both.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Do you know whereabouts in Heaton she lives?’
‘No.’
‘It might be Bramble Rise.’
‘Might be.’ The banging seems to have paused.
Mum toys with her spoon. ‘You really weren’t curious to see Nan and Grandad’s house?’
I shake my head. ‘It’s like you always say, they’re not there.’
‘And you honestly didn’t go to the cemetery?’
‘No, I’d have told you. But … ’ I pause, wondering if I should go on.
‘But?’ she prompts.
‘Well …’ I frown, hoping I won’t upset her. ‘I did want to go, when I saw it. I want to.’
She considers it for a moment, her expression unreadable.
Then, with a slow sigh, she nods.
It amazes me that she doesn’t try to dissuade me.
‘Let’s go after this,’ she says, shocking me more. ‘As long as you feel up to it.’
‘I feel up to it,’ I say. ‘But do you?’
‘Yes. It’s time.’
I frown. ‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘All right,’ I say dubiously.
And, for a few seconds, we’re silent.
I study her, trying to wrap my head around her suggesting this, after so many years.
Absently, she reaches for the pot, pouring more tea.
She stirs in the milk.
Forgets her sugar.
I open my mouth to remind her.
Then, the bloody banging starts again.
I set my teeth, once again resisting the urge to look up at it.
‘Did you remember Bramble Lane?’ Mum asks.
‘Not at all.’ I take a breath, willing the banging away. ‘It’s strange, actually. I was expecting it to be quieter. More open. I could have sworn there used to be fields behind our house.’
Carefully, she stirs her sugarless tea. ‘Fields?’
‘Yes. I remember chasing sheep with Nan.’
‘You never chased sheep with your nan,’ she says.
And is it me, or has her voice turned weirdly tight?
‘Yes, I did,’ I tell her.
‘No. She was asthmatic. Very allergic … ’
‘But I remember … ’
‘You didn’t chase sheep with her.’
‘But there were fields behind the house, yes?’
God, will this banging ever stop?
And what’s even causing it?
It sounds like hammers.
Lots of hammers, knocking on nails.
Into what though?
Wood, my subconscious supplies.
And, from nowhere, I remember what Tim said about Doverley’s wood rot, and how half of the first floor disintegrated in 1943.
It had to be replaced …
Is that what I’m hearing?
Have I really just asked myself that question?
And did Mum just say something else?
She’s definitely looking at me like she’s expecting an answer.
‘What’s that?’ I ask.
‘I said, what makes you think there were fields behind the house? It was right in the middle of the estate.’
‘It’s how I remember it,’ I say, and the banging stops again.
Instinctively, I glance upwards at the silence.
I can’t believe I’ve done that.
‘What’s got your attention up there?’ Mum asks me, quick as a flash, and this time there’s no doubting the tightness in her voice. ‘You’ve been trying not to look ever since we sat down.’
‘No I haven’t … ’
‘I’m afraid you have.’ She narrows her eyes in a penetrating glare. (She’s very good at those.) ‘What’s going on?’
Nothing, I could say.
It’s absolutely nothing.
But her eyes on me don’t waver.
And I never have been able to lie to her.
‘You really haven’t heard it?’ I say, and it’s like a pressure valve opening, just letting that question go.
‘Heard what?’
‘The banging,’ I say, my heart pummelling at this leap I’m taking.
Mum continues to stare.
For an uncomfortable length of time.
‘Claudia,’ she says, and oh god, she’s used my proper name, ‘I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer it honestly. Have you been hearing any other noises?’
I swallow, drily. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I think you know what I mean.’ She leans towards me, and my heart quickens all the more. ‘When you’ve been looking up at the sky, have you been hearing something there?’
It’s my turn to stare.
Does she know?
Can it really be possible that she knows?
‘Claudia,’ she persists. ‘Have you heard a … bird?’
She refuses to tell me how she’s guessed about the bird.
‘Not until you’ve done some more talking,’ she says, and, pushing away her unsweetened tea, suggests we fetch our coats and leave for the cemetery.
‘Are you really sure about this?’ I ask her. ‘You’ve never wanted to go before.’
‘No,’ she agrees, ‘but I think we need to go now.’
‘Why?’
‘Let’s get there first.’
‘Mum, come on … ’
‘No, I’m not saying anything else until we’re there.’
‘Why?’
‘I’ll tell you when we’re there,’ she repeats, in a definitive tone that lets me know there’s no point pushing her further.
So, with a frustrated sigh, I tell her I’ll see her outside in five minutes, then head back to my room to layer up.
It’s been cleaned in my absence: the bed made; the bathroom reordered.
Nick’s obviously been and gone too; he’s left a note on my pillow telling me to please make use of it and get some more sleep.
I touch my fingers to the paper, picturing him here in his costume, and – replaying his kiss this morning, everything yesterday – wish I hadn’t missed him.
You’re enough for me, he told me last night, and it made my heart swell.
I feel it happening again now, remembering.
I think I might actually be starting to believe it.
Believe him.
Perhaps that’s why I’m feeling so guilty that, in the space of one barely eaten breakfast, I’ve opened up to Mum more than I have him.
Because how many times has he implored me to confide in him?
And how many times have I remained silent, hurting him more, when he’s been hurting so much already?
I have no idea, it’s too many to count, and it makes me really ashamed that I’ve done that to him.
Him, who at the start of all this drove from York to Highgate at a moment’s notice, just because I called to ask him to dinner with my family.
Him, who invited Phil and my sisters along with him flying, didn’t flinch when Lisa vomited on his feet, but joked with her about it, then took Hannah and her friends out in London, even though it was undoubtedly the last thing he felt like doing that night.
Him, who I’ve scared enough with my behaviour that he’s been agonising over it with my friends, called Mum when I fell, then sat in a plastic chair by my side all day long yesterday, holding my hand, silently panicking that I’d deliberately thrown myself down that flight of stairs.
Him, who believes I’m beautiful when I’m wearing a shower cap, and can still make me laugh, even when I’m crying.
Him, who today has used his break from a full-on day filming to check on me, and leave a note on my pillow.
Him, whose face I’ve always loved more than any other, until I saw Robbie Grayson’s, and who really does deserve so much better than to share heart-space with a man who died nearly eighty years ago.
Him, who, whatever his own secrets, I need, finally, to be transparent with about that, and everything else I’ve been holding so close.
I’ll do it tonight, I decide, shrugging on my coat.
Then, pocketing his note, I head back downstairs, buzzing with apprehension, and impatience too, determined to get to the bottom of whatever it is Mum knows, and hasn’t been telling me.