For a place named Golden Hill it was surprisingly flat and green. The road followed the shores of a lake so vast it might’ve been the sea. It made me ache to be on board ship, heading home. Tomorrow I would be. We would be. I hadn’t a clue how I’d manage it, but I had no intention of leaving Mam behind.
Set back from the lake was a red brick house with a roof like a church spire. The driver dropped me at the gates.
‘This is it,’ he said.
Suddenly, I was gripped by nerves. The sign on the gatepost said ‘Golden Hill Retreat’. There was a bell to ring for the gates to be opened.
The driver nudged me. ‘Off you go. And don’t forget this.’
He handed me my parcel. Tucking it under my arm, I climbed down from the carriage and pulled the bell. Inside my chest a boom-booming started, though for quite a while no one came. Finally, a woman in a grey dress and pinny appeared.
‘Yes?’ She made no move to open the gates.
‘I’ve come to see my mam,’ I said.
Her eyes flicked over me. ‘Your mother’s name?’
‘Um . . .’ All I knew were her initials. ‘M.S. I don’t know her full name.’
The woman looked blank. ‘What makes you think she’s with us?’
‘Mr Gideon Wellbeloved sent her here. I saw the bills.’
‘The bills, eh?’
I’d got her interest now.
‘You’ve come from England. I can tell from your accent,’ she said. ‘And M.S. stands for Maria Samparini.’
What a name. It sounded like music.
‘But there’s no visiting today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.’
Tomorrow?
She might as well have tied a brick to my heart and thrown it in the lake.
‘But I’m leaving for England tomorrow. You must let me see her. Please!’ I cried.
The woman drummed her fingers on the gate. ‘Mr Wellbeloved has received the bills, you say?’
‘Yes, but I heard he never reads them,’ I said, knowing from bitter experience he wasn’t a good payer. But I didn’t see what this had to do with Mam.
Yet it worked. With a mighty clunk, the woman opened the gates. We hurried down a driveway to the front of the house. It didn’t look so swanky in real life. The gardens were all lawns and trees, with no flowers to speak of. We went up the front steps and into a dim hallway. After the bright sunlight, I saw sparkles before my eyes.
‘Wait here.’ The woman disappeared through a door.
Once, this might’ve been a smart house. There were still coloured tiles on the floor and swirls on the ceiling. The staircase curved upwards; I imagined fine ladies walking down it in their ball gowns. Now there were faded patches on the walls where pictures had once been. It was a sad sort of place to be ill in. The sooner I got Mam home, the better.
The woman reappeared with a key.
‘My name is Miss Winters.’
‘I’m Louie,’ I said, holding out my hand.
She didn’t take it.
‘This is highly irregular,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Follow me.’
My belly churned as I followed her up the stairs. At the very top we went down a corridor full of doorways. Miss Winters’s boots tap-tapped on the bare boards. There was no other sound. The air was hot and stuffy and smelled of old dinners. Sweat prickled my neck.
Miss Winters stopped at the final door. She knocked on it lightly with her knuckles.
‘Maria?’ she called. ‘A visitor is here to see you.’
Nervously, I shifted my parcel from one arm to the other; I wished I’d brought flowers instead. Miss Winters put her key in the lock and leaned her shoulder against the door. It opened a fraction. She looked inside, nodded, then opened it wider.
‘In you go,’ she said, stepping aside for me. ‘Try not to excite her.’
She locked the door behind her.
The room was small with a sloping roof. A low window with bars on it looked out towards the lake. The only furniture was a bed and a chair. There was no one here. There’d been some mistake. I went to call Miss Winters, then I saw someone sitting on the floor. She had her back against the wall, her legs stretched out in front of her. Her face was turned towards the window.
My knees started shaking. In my mind’s eye I’d had a picture of my mam: red hair, pale skin, easy smile. This woman wore an ugly brown frock. Her wrists and ankles stuck out of it like bird bones. Her hair wasn’t bright and flowing. It was streaked with grey and plaited tight to her head. She didn’t look much of a biter either. I’d seen more life in a line of laundry.
The woman sensed me watching. Slowly, she turned her head. My hands were shaking now. The parcel slipped from my grasp to the floor.
For a very long moment, the woman stared at me without blinking.
Then she frowned. ‘Louie?’
The eyes looking back at me were as green as a cat’s. They might’ve been my own.
‘Yes, Mam. It’s me.’
I took a few steps towards her, then stopped. Was I meant to hug her? Kiss her? I’d no idea. My feet wouldn’t move. The space between us felt huge.
Then Mam reached out to me, and I joined her at the window. She touched my cheek, my hair, my shoulder, like she was checking I was real. And as she cupped my face in her hands I put my own fingers over hers just to keep them there. When she did let go it was only to hold me closer.
‘My dearest girl,’ she said.
We sat together on the floor in a little patch of sunlight. Tears were shed, but they were mostly happy tears. It was Mam who moved first. Stiffly, she got to her feet and made me get up too. It was only then that I truly saw how thin she was, and how I was almost as tall as her.
‘Let’s sit here,’ she said, patting the narrow bed.
As we squeezed up together I felt her hip bone dig into mine. She smelled strongly of carbolic soap.
‘How did you find me?’ she said.
I didn’t know where to start. With the red taffeta heart? The letter? Mr Wellbeloved’s bills? As Miss Winters had said not to excite her, I wasn’t sure quite what to say.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m with a circus.’
She smiled wearily. ‘Dear Leo.’
Straight away I was thrown. ‘So you do know Mr Chipchase?’
She shrugged. Was that a flush on her cheeks? My mind started racing. Her . . . and . . . Mr Chipchase?
It was easier to keep talking.
‘I came here to perform, though not with Mr Chipchase. But I knew from your letter you might be overseas somewhere. You see, I walk the tightrope.’
Mam rubbed her forehead. ‘Slow down a little.’
She looked like she’d just woken from a dream and was still dazed by it. I slipped my fingers into hers.
‘So, I walk the tightrope,’ I said. ‘It’s my passion, and I trust it more than anything.’
A flicker came into her eyes. ‘I understand,’ she said.
Yet I felt her drift away from me again. She gazed into space for a very long moment. Then she spotted my parcel on the floor. ‘What’s this? Is it yours?’
‘Actually, it’s yours.’
I’d brought it here in case she hadn’t recognised me. Such a thought seemed ridiculous now.
‘Shall we open it?’ she said.
I felt a little uneasy, not sure what she’d make of that red tunic with the heart cut out of it. But by rights it was hers; I could hardly say no. So I stood and picked up the parcel from the floor. As I undid its strings and pulled out the tunic, Mam shrank back in horror.
‘Where did you get it?’ she cried.
I hesitated. Again, I didn’t know quite where to start – Mr Wellbeloved and his trail of crumbs, or why he still had something of hers? I hardly understood it myself.
‘All these years he kept it,’ she whispered. ‘All these years . . .’ She put her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. The pulse in her neck beat fast.
‘Mam,’ I said, perching on the edge of the bed beside her, ‘it’s all right.’
Though it was clear things weren’t right at all.