March

Hello, my dear, welcome back for what I think will be the final time. It’s lovely to have this opportunity to chat for longer, to not have to rush. I could bask here all day being recharged by the sunshine. You are aware of the loss of daylight over the winter, but until it shines again in spring, you don’t fully appreciate what you’ve been missing. It isn’t only me, have you seen this butterfly? It has awoken early, I think, seems a strange time to see it. I’m sure it’s laying eggs and it’s normal behaviour, but it feels incongruent. I don’t expect to see butterflies this early in the season, fighting it out with the small honeybees and that huge solitary bee which is attempting to dominate those crocuses. I would like to keep an eye on the butterfly while we talk, see what it’s doing, find out if it’s the only one. I’m puzzled but, if I pay attention and trust my senses, I’m sure everything will become clear.

The sun’s rays have definitely driven me on, I’ve been very active today, clearing away the last of the winter debris. There may still be a frost overnight, but I believe we are far enough through that everything would survive. The weather is ridiculously changeable at the moment. Earlier, we had a hailstorm which descended out of nowhere. Everything hunkered down to get through it, the crocuses huddled up, the insects sheltered, the birds tucked themselves away. Then the sunshine came back and everything smiled, opened up, basked, like I’m doing now, it’s all on tenterhooks though, not ready to commit to the coming of spring, retreating when the weather turns, but striding out for the sunlight when it glows. I understand exactly how it feels.

*******

I’ve only got one more story left to tell you. I’m sure I’ve answered all your questions but one, the most important in my opinion, which is ‘why did my girls keep my secret all that time?’ If they had said something, my cover story would have unravelled, but they never did. You see, all stories are comprised of a handful of lies sprinkled across the truth, and my tale is an exemplar. Take, for example, how easily everyone believed that Frank had disappeared to avoid paying his debts. I knew it was a lie, my children knew it was a lie, but no one else seemed in the least suspicious about it. Not his mother, not his boss, not even Gary. There was a good reason for this, and that’s the bed of truth this lie rested on. Frank was in lots of debt, and he was intending to run away from his problems, leaving the three of us behind.

He didn’t go so far as to tell me he was leaving, but he was laying the groundwork to do so. He was in trouble, and he was searching for a lever to extract himself from it. But there were gambling debts, they weren’t the sort of thing the bank would assist you with. I was grateful for Mother’s foresight in keeping Gran’s house in her name, I would have lost everything in an instant if it were left to me and Frank. As it was, he had already re-mortgaged our home, and there were no other ways left to get the extra money he needed. He’d started to drop hints about not letting anyone into the house when he wasn’t at home, that he had people watching the house and that I shouldn’t forget it. It sounded as if he was accusing me of having an affair, which I was, of course, but as Gary came to the house when Frank was there himself, I was safe in that respect. No, Frank’s paranoia stemmed from his mire with debt collectors.

He made me so angry, he was risking everything we’d built together. I confronted him one evening, after another of his dropped hints, and asked him straight out how much money he owed, and how much trouble we were in. He refused to answer me, slumped instead with his head hung, shaking it from side to side as he wrung his hands. Did I not understand how difficult life was for him? Could I not appreciate how hard he’d been working? So he’d made a few mistakes, he was only human, why was I making such a fuss? What did I, a woman, know about such matters? No-no-no, it was better that I left him be to sort it out his way. He pushed me aside and poured himself another drink. He might have been worried about money, but I hadn’t noticed the quality or the quantity of his whisky reduce in line with our fortunes.

It was only a matter of time before he abandoned us and, once I got used to the idea, I can’t say I was unhappy about the prospect. I could get a little peace, not worry too much about the football results. I’d be able to spend more time with Gary, although I knew better than to imagine life would be easier with him than it was with Frank. I was confident I could be promoted at work if I applied myself to the task, and I had the rent money from Gran’s house that Mother was sharing with me, and so I thought I’d manage. I convinced myself that removing the noose that was Frank from around my neck was a good thing, and as he was planning to abscond, neither of us tried to fix things and our split became inevitable. My sole remaining concern was to protect my children and so, as Frank had begun his groundwork with me, so I began mine with the girls.

*******

I took them shopping one Saturday, to a lovely arcade in the centre of the nearest city. It was a special treat, the sort of trip we might take for their birthday. The city was bustling and smelly, the weather poor for March, but the stores were brightly lit and enticing. I guided them through their giddiness, only ten years old and impressed by the stylish shop assistants who welcomed us, dishing out fancy outfits and matching shoes. No one would be slicing those open with a knife. We had a fantastic time, even Lucy, who by this stage had sworn off making any effort to look pretty. Normally, she wouldn’t be interested in dressing up in party clothes, but she got into the spirit of the day. But then, at the peak of their excitement, I switched to sadness, gathering them up and shooing them out while the assistants glowered at us. Loud enough for all to hear, I told them we couldn’t afford to buy anything, sniffling to maximise the effect, and I hurried them out to the street.

I strode ahead of them and let them chase after me, letting their unease simmer. I didn’t look back, I went straight to the bus stop and threw myself onto the bench, covering my face with my hands. The wind was whipping around the shelter and the evening had already drawn in, no doubt increasing the tension the girls felt. They were not used to seeing me cry, and they sat side-by-side with me, pressing in from both ends. I admit, it was much warmer squeezed in the middle like that, and it made waiting for the bus a lot easier. I had time, but I needed to hurry up and say what I’d prepared while their emotions were so high.

“Girls,” I said, and I’m repeating this for you exactly, I had memorised it ahead of this moment and I’ve never forgotten it, so you can take this as a direct quote.

“Girls, your father has ruined us all. There’s no money left, he’s been drinking and gambling it all away. Mother always warned me, Maureen, that man you married... but no, you don’t need to hear me speak ill of your father.”

I paused to dab at my tears, and check both girls were listening properly, giving me their full attention.

“Your father is going to have to go away for a while, in order to save us all from this calamity.”

Maybe it was the way I said it, but I’m not sure they realised the significance of my speech. They weren’t as distraught as I’d expected. Another push would be needed, but the seed was sown, and from there it was simple.

On the bus home, I pointed out the poor parts of the city, the outskirts, and said we’d be moving there, if Frank lost any more money. I talked about how it would be hard for them to change schools, but that they would eventually settle in, that they would forget all their current friends and they’d make some new ones. They’d still have each other, whatever happened. And then I was quiet. None of us said anything for the remainder of the journey, about thirty-five minutes it was, if memory serves. I let them stew. They needed to be clear as to what they stood to lose if it all went wrong.

As we stepped off the bus, I drew the girls to one side, placing a hand on the shoulder of each, bent over so my face was close to theirs, the three of us in a tight formation, underneath a streetlamp which threw shadows across our faces and added to the gravity of the situation.

“Neither of you must mention a word of this to your dad. He is worried enough without us adding to his problems, you know what he’s like when he’s upset.”

Both girls had seen Frank lose his temper, and I’ve no doubt they’d heard our rows, just as I had heard my parents.

“He will try his best, but he may have to leave us for a while, in order to protect us from the people who want money.”

This was the important point I needed to bring home, so I tightened my grip on their shoulders for emphasis.

“When he leaves us, you must not tell anyone where he’s gone, or that you know of any money problems or anything of that ilk. As far as you’re concerned, your father has run away, you don’t know why, and you’re really upset. Cry if you have to, it’ll stop people asking you any more questions. Am I clear?”

Carol nodded, whereas Lucy’s head jerked backwards, her eyes filling with tears. She said nothing.

“That’s the way Lucy,” I said, proud of her ability to produce her tears on demand, “Hopefully Carol can be as convincing as you when the time comes.”

*******

Layers of secrets within a family create strange imaginings, you’re unsure who knows what, and you over-interpret every glance, assuming there are shared confidences you’re unaware of. But as far as I can fathom, the girls believed their father was leaving them for their own good, though they were old enough to know better. Frank was planning his escape, he believed I knew but the girls didn’t suspect anything. And everyone believed I was unhappy that Frank was leaving, but I wasn’t. So, when Frank choked during an early dinner one evening in April 1972, and I chased the girls upstairs so they didn’t have to see his final moments, it all fell neatly into place. How different was it really, for a ten-year-old child, how their father comes to leave them? What is ‘death’ to them? When our cat died the autumn before, they’d been sad when we buried him in the garden, but by the time I was re-burying the cat after the fox’s visit, they’d forgotten about him. It proved to be the same with their father. He was there, and then he was gone, and they couldn’t be certain he was dead because they were only ten, and so it was all part of the plan. They didn’t know where he was, though they were sure he wasn’t coming back, and they had been told that this was a good thing. In truth, they were probably a little confused.

I had to tell them he was dead, of course, eventually. I was confident Carol could keep quiet, but I worried about Lucy. She needed a gentle reminder of the stakes. This time, I said I would be taken from them if they didn’t keep our family secret. That if they told anyone that Frank was dead then I would go to prison. He’d only choked, they’d both seen as much, it was no one’s fault. Luckily, all those bad men who were collecting Frank’s debts believed he was still out there somewhere, and they were chasing him, not us. We would be safe. Nothing good would come from talking about it. Not then, and truth be told, not now either. Maybe Lucy has talked though, my dear, has she already told you this? No, I thought not, and we’ve come to trust each other over the course of this year, haven’t we? I cannot see why you wouldn’t warn me if she had. After all, there’s hardly a secret left anymore. Everyone knows Frank died and I buried the body, she barely knows any more than that.

If Lucy were telling you this story, though, here is where she’d stop. She’d tell you her dad was planning to hide from his debts, that he choked over dinner before he could run, and that I hid the body on the allotment so his debtors wouldn’t come after us. All of which is true, I might add. In incredulous tones, she would describe how I refused to fight for my freedom, when she was only nineteen years old, while she was pregnant and needed her mother. Incandescent at my failure to appeal, she stopped visiting me. She might even believe her own story, but in truth, she had been distancing herself for years, and she’d left home by the time I was arrested. She never tried to understand why I didn’t speak out, why I continued to keep our secrets. She assumed it was risk-free for me to challenge my conviction. She thought I would say he’d choked, and that everyone would be satisfied with that, that they wouldn’t go hunting for anything more. I couldn’t lie convincingly, you see, and I couldn’t bring myself to destroy the evidence. If I’d defended myself, I could only have done so at someone else’s expense, and I wasn’t willing to do that, no matter how badly they treated me. I couldn’t explain that to Lucy, and so she couldn’t forgive me. But it had to be that way.

And therein lies the nuance in the middle of this mystery. I did something terrible, something that deserved punishment. Something I’ve never forgiven myself for, and never told anyone about. Even when I was betrayed, when it might have been easy to convince myself I wasn’t to blame, I knew it wasn’t true. I’ve carried this secret with me ever since. But now is the time to share it with you, to pass on your true inheritance. I have to tell my story while there is time left to do so, and while there is someone who wants to hear it. So I’m going to tell you, my dear, about the chat Carol and I had, one afternoon in late March 1972, two weeks before Frank died.

*******

The girls didn’t enjoy accompanying me to the allotment. I took them often, forcing them to help, and to learn as they worked. Although, by the time they were ten years old, I was leaving them at home sometimes, with a neighbour aware and available if there were any problems. I could only do this for a short while, either I needed to be sure that Frank would return soon, or not be away too long. In two hours I could barely do any gardening worth the name, but I made the effort anyway. It was easier this way when it rained, as dragging two unwilling children to an allotment in a downpour is no one’s idea of fun. However, this was one of those late March mornings which remind us that spring has arrived, and a Saturday too, the whole day ahead of us. Frank was off to the match, his attempts to save money hadn’t affected his season ticket, of course. You’d have thought the girls would be as eager as he and I were to be out of the house in such lovely weather, but I had never known either say anything other than how unhappy they were at the prospect of going to the allotment.

So, I was flabbergasted when Carol said she wanted to come gardening with me. Lucy had a look of revulsion on her face. She launched into an eloquent argument as to why she shouldn’t be forced to spend her day there, just because Carol wanted to, and as she was ten years old now, she didn’t need anyone to take care of her. I was clear in my rules though, they only stayed alone if they stayed together and, truth be told, I wanted more than a couple of hours out there on a day this fine. Even more surprising, Carol suggested Lucy be allowed to sit reading in the shed as a special treat. That mollified Lucy, both girls busying themselves getting ready to go, perfectly happily. This should have been my first warning sign that there was trouble ahead, but I didn’t heed it. Sometimes, when events go in a way which suits us, we don’t take time to examine them as closely as we should.

There I was, not long after, at the allotment with one child ensconced in the shed with her book, and the other pulling on gardening gloves and keen to get started. We were going to free the flowering patch from the last of the winter debris, and if there was time, dig over the vegetable patch ready for some new planting. That was where I buried Frank two weeks later, and although it did get dug over before he died, I didn’t get to it that day with Carol. Our whole time was spent weeding the flowers and the herbs, mainly because of the interest Carol showed. She did more asking than digging, truth be told, getting me talking about each plant as we were attending to it, prompting me to share my knowledge with her. I don’t believe I would have told her so much if I hadn’t had such encouragement.

You see, my dear, I love to teach whenever I can. I have expertise and I am eager to share it, as I’m sure you’ve realised. And when I get carried away, I’m not always thinking about whether it’s right to share something, or thinking about the consequences, I’m away, in the zone, feeling the flow. I suppose this is my defence, my explanation as to why I did what I did and ended up in this situation. I behaved like a teacher, when I should have reacted like a mother, and as I had the misfortune to do the first so well, I had to step up and make sure I did the second to the best of my abilities. I hadn’t explained horticulture to my girls before, or told them about Gran’s experiments with her plants, finally, Carol was interested in it all. That day, I told her every detail I knew about every plant in the herb bed, and I have regretted it every day since Frank died.

I told Carol about the coriander that Gran adapted over the years to become more resilient to frost. I told her about the pure, uncrossed fennel, whose seeds Gran chewed to stave off her hunger during the cold winters of the Great War. I told her about Gran’s ‘Monksbane,’ as she’d named it, and her obsessive culture of it so that you could touch the leaves safely with bare hands. I told her I’d never tested it personally and always kept my gloves on, but that the roots were the most poisonous part of the plant anyway. I told Carol that if she ate some of it, she’d choke to death, that’s how strong its poison is, and it would be a slow death, so I told her that if she was tempted to taste it, she should eat a lot so it would kill her quicker. I told her how Gran used a pestle and mortar to grind it, and dusted the bait for the vermin. I told her that you couldn’t taste it if you added it to a stew. Not that I’d tried any one of these things myself, I was simply sharing with Carol what my Gran had told me. Passing on the knowledge, helping Carol to understand. I was excited about her interest in gardening, and I dreamed of many wonderful days together on the allotment, as Gran and I had spent on her patch. And so, I told her all this without thinking it through. This is why I couldn’t say anything when she betrayed me. She knew all along how Frank had died. She knew it was murder.

*******

“Dad’s got to leave now. Quickly, before it’s too late.”

Out she came with it, like that, those exact words. I was mid-sentence, nattering about the mulching benefits of the comfrey leaves I was scattering, and her outburst was so unexpected that I completely lost my train of thought. I stood up straight, easing the muscles in my back with my fists and I looked at her with interest. She was bouncing on her toes, she was breathing too heavily, she was flushed in the face too, although that may have been the exertion of the gardening, anyway, I could see she was agitated. It was dawning on me that this was why she’d wanted to come to the allotment that day. Building up her courage to say this, without the risk of anyone else hearing her.

“He’s got to go, why hasn’t he gone yet?”

“He will be going, my dear, but we aren’t in a rush for him to leave. He says he’ll be gone before they catch up with him, so trust your dad to do what’s best for us.”

“He won’t go, he’s taking too long, what happens when they come? I don’t want to move. I don’t want to live in the poor part of town. I want him to go. Now!”

She was screeching by the end of this, and I hastened to quieten her. On such a lovely day, one of the first of the year, there was someone on each allotment, sometimes whole families, and I knew them all. Carol in a frenzy was bound to bring us friendly enquiries from our neighbours.

“Shush,” I said, bending down so my head was in front of hers, “Shush now, it’s our secret, remember?”

Carol nodded, biting her lip, her eyes bulging with the effort of bringing herself under control. But she did it and when she next spoke, she had herself back together, impressively so, I must say, for a ten-year-old.

“The risk is too big, Mum, we can’t take it. I don’t think he’ll go, he’ll put it off one more day, always one more day, and then it’ll be too late. You need to make him leave now.”

“I can’t make him leave,” I told her, determined to allow no room for doubt, “He’ll go when he’s ready, and we’ll make the best of whatever situation we are left in, I promise, I’ll look after you.”

And I ended the conversation there. I walked back to the shed under the guise of checking on Lucy. I left Carol, distraught, desperate, standing amongst the herbs with some gardening gloves on, surrounded by the paraphernalia of our activity. At the time, I thought I’d dealt with her concerns well enough, but maybe I was refusing to engage with them, perhaps they reflected my own fears too closely. Either way, I left her there, panicking about her future while I made cocoa in the shed and chatted to Lucy about the book she was reading. I failed Carol that day. All I could do about it later was to keep my promises, make the best of the situation we were in, and look after her.

*******

I didn’t suspect anything was wrong until Frank choked on his stew, two weeks later to the day. I’m not sure if you’ve ever watched someone as they’re choking, my dear, but you can’t mistake it for a coughing fit. It’s not like when you aspirate, or when you swallow a big bit of food and can feel it undulating along your oesophagus. When you choke, you cannot breathe. You panic, and it shows in your eyes. There is no excuse for not realising how serious it is, no defence at all. And I was no different. Frank coughed, his face getting redder. He reached for his glass, spilling water as he tried to take a sip, spluttering it back out, coughing more violently. He looked at me with wild eyes, he was choking. This was two years before the Heimlich Manoeuvre was discovered, or would you say invented? Anyway, all I knew back then was to hit someone on the back, as hard as I could, or to wait until they passed out and try to fish the food out.

I sent the girls out of our dining room and I pushed the door closed behind them. I didn’t want them to see this. Frank rose to his feet, he was panicking, flinging his arms about, banging the table, but still aware of what I was doing. I moved behind him and started hitting him between his shoulder blades, he bent forward to aid me, knocking our dinner to the floor as he did so, but this meant I could bring my arm downwards. I was thumping him hard, but I couldn’t drum a sound from him. When I rested my hand on his back, I could feel his heart hammering, far too fast. Beating him wasn’t working, but I knew that when he passed out, I could try again. I wasn’t too worried yet and my arm ached, so I stopped, and went to check the girls weren’t trying to listen in. Frank must have thought I was abandoning him to his terror, maybe even to his death. He stumbled after me, indignation meeting horror on his face. I darted away, into the lounge and he fell, sprawling on the floor, half-in and half-out of the hallway. His face purpled, his movements weakened, and finally, he passed out. I gave myself a moment to catch my own breath, but I couldn’t leave him where he was, so I grabbed his arm, yanking him through the doorway. Once away from the girls, who were hovering on the stairs despite my admonishment, I tried to dislodge whatever was causing him to choke. My main worry was how I would manage Frank’s anger when he came round.

I only began to suspect something was amiss when I couldn’t revive him. I’d shifted him onto his back and opened his mouth, but I couldn’t see anything. I’d had a poke around. I got more agitated then, he still wasn’t breathing, and I didn’t know what else to try. He lay there, looking for all the world like he’d passed out on the floor after having too much to drink. But he hadn’t, he’d died there, on our living room floor. And it still didn’t click. I didn’t realise what had happened until I looked up to see Carol poking her head around the door. Not Lucy. She hadn’t come back down, though I’m sure she’d heard everything. Only Carol. Carol looked at me, without anxiety, without concern, without tears in her eyes. She looked satisfied, truth be told, with her lips turning up slightly at the edges in a not-quite smile.

“He can’t ruin anything now, Mum. We won’t have to move, it will all be alright now, won’t it?”

What do you say to a ten-year-old in those circumstances? Could she understand what she’d done? Could she comprehend what death meant, how final it was, how wrong it was? I didn’t believe she could. I vowed that I would never let Carol take any blame at all for what happened. She’s like the fox, you see, the one who killed Gran’s cockerel. It wasn’t the fox’s fault, it was mine, I’d left the hatch open. I couldn’t blame her, I understood whose fault it was that Frank died. So, I promised her it would be all right, that we would make the best of it, and that I would look after her.

*******

I realise Lucy doesn’t see it this way, she doesn’t know what happened and so, why would she? She and I have never had the chance to talk like you and I have. I’m so pleased we’ve been able to spend this time together. We’re about to start the spring rounds of the vegetable patch again, or at least we would, if I had more time left. So, I’ve trusted you with this story, but truth be told, I wanted to be sharing it with Lucy instead. I’m hopeful that this way, maybe one day, Lucy will learn of what I’ve done, and the reasons for it. It’ll be too late for her to do anything about it, of course. I’ll deny it if I’m asked, and I’ve served the sentence for Frank’s death now, so nothing could come of telling. But I would like her to understand, to appreciate that a mother protects her children and keeps her promises, even after they betray them. I think she’d only listen to that story if it came from you. This way I know that, even after I’ve gone, she can still learn what happened and why.

Now, I cannot keep standing here, nattering away, I’ve got weeding to do. I feel the passing of time so keenly now, and either I keep going or I stop altogether, and I don’t think I’d get started again. I’ve enough weeds here to occupy me for the little time I’ve got left. I know you think me strange for caring for something that I’m not going to see grow, that I won’t reap a harvest from, but that is what a legacy is, my dear. Something that will still be here after I’ve gone.

Today, I’m pulling up all the vegetables planted at the left side there, close by the fence. I’ve no idea what gets sprayed on that field, but something drastic does, the ground’s unploughed, yet it looks as if it is dead. The other fields around it, they are green, something is growing back, even if it isn’t what the farmer wants. That brown field stands as a warning, and its testimony has encroached into my patch. The end of those rows, nearest the fence there, they’re barely growing at all, whereas beyond and away, they are flying up, the garlic, the onions, the cabbages, everything is happier the further from the deathly field it gets. It goes to show how important your environment is, my dear. A few feet to the left and you’re perishing, a few feet to the right and you’re flourishing. It matters where you are placed.