It was Lawrence’s turn to have the children that weekend and Rachel was rather amused to see that he was every inch the polite, courteous ex-husband as he arrived on time and whisked them away, Harvey bounding into the car boot to accompany them. (After weeks of enforced separation it would have taken a harder heart and a deadlier threat than some extra hoovering at Builth Wells for anyone to try and argue with Scarlet about that.) Becca headed for Birmingham soon afterwards, the two sisters surprising each other with a goodbye hug on the doorstep.
Rachel had felt somewhat apprehensive about being left to her own devices for the whole weekend, but was determined to manage alone. She had an early night on Friday, then busied herself with housework on Saturday morning: laboriously and slowly stripping all the beds and putting the linen to wash, tidying Luke’s bedroom, and tackling the ironing. Then she sat down with all the bills that needed paying, a frown pinching her forehead as she totted up the ‘incoming’ figures on her spreadsheet. Despite Becca’s best attempts to keep the business ticking over, it was all looking pretty desperate, unfortunately. And then, once she was fully fit again at the end of July, it would be the summer holidays, and both time and money would be stretched even tighter. She was going to have to ask Lawrence to step up his game, she decided. Pay her more maintenance, for starters, and take the children for a whole week in August so that she could really go for it on the work front, maybe run some kind of holiday boot camp . . . She rubbed her eyes, feeling uncertain and not a little despairing. It was at times like this that she missed having a husband by her side – or anyone! – to say, We could try this, or Maybe this might work, or even a simple Don’t worry. We’ll be all right.
The doorbell rang just then and she stiffened in her chair. It was two in the afternoon, too late for the postman, too soon for any returning members of her family. Jehovah’s Witnesses? One of her friends trying to ambush her with a surprise visit?
She hesitated, wondering what to do. She still felt so awkward and self-conscious around other people, she was tempted to ignore whoever it was. Then the letterbox rattled. ‘It’s me!’ came a familiar voice. ‘Open up!’
Becca? Rachel went to the door feeling confused, certain her sister had said she’d be back on Sunday. And yet there she was on the doorstep, looking shifty, rushing to get in an explanation before Rachel could speak. ‘Don’t be mad,’ she said. ‘But I thought we should all have a chat. I wasn’t sure you would ever get round to organizing it so . . . I did.’
‘What?’ Rachel asked, not following, but then the passenger door of Becca’s decrepit car opened and it all became clear. Because there was Wendy clambering out, a vision in a lime-green top and denim skirt, sunglasses pushed up in her hennaed hair. There was just the very faintest flash of nerves in her eyes as she tottered up the drive with a bunch of yellow roses.
‘Oh,’ said Rachel faintly. Becca, you didn’t, she wanted to say in exasperation at her meddling sister. But of course she had. ‘Hello.’
‘Hello, love,’ Wendy said, and the two of them hesitated for a moment, then leaned forward to give each other a brief, polite peck on the cheek. ‘I hope you don’t mind us turning up like this. Becky assured me it would be fine, but we all know how some of her other impulsive ideas have turned out. That bubble perm three years ago, for starters. So . . . is this okay? We’ll bugger off again if you’ve got plans, obviously. Oh – and these are for you.’
The roses dumped in her arms, expectant gazes mirrored in Becca’s and Wendy’s faces, it was impossible to refuse. ‘Of course,’ Rachel said, forcing a sickly smile. ‘Come on in.’
‘Ooh, I’d forgotten what a lovely house this is,’ Wendy said, taking off her sandals in the hall. ‘We’ve brought refreshments, by the way,’ she added, delving into the voluminous gold shoulder bag she was toting. ‘Vanilla ice cream and bananas.’ She passed a Tesco bag to Rachel. ‘I would have brought cake but Becky told me that eating was a bit tricky, so I thought I could whizz us all up some naughty smoothies instead.’ She pulled one last item from the bag – a bottle of rum – and winked. ‘What do you say?’
Rachel had been about to offer tea, coffee, elderflower cordial, but she knew when she was beaten. ‘Lovely,’ she said instead, shooting Becca a look that said We’ll talk about this later. If she survived the afternoon, that was.
It was a mild late-June day – white cloud and soft warm air – so once the first batch of naughty smoothies had been created, the three of them settled themselves around the patio table outside, Britishly making the most of the fact that it wasn’t actually raining. ‘What a smashing garden,’ Wendy said, sipping appreciatively, her blue eyes widening a fraction as the zing of rum hit her. ‘Cor, that’s got a kick. Shall we toss a coin for who drives home later on, Becky? I’m going to be plastered by the bottom of this glass if I’m not careful.’
Becca started scoffing at her mum, calling her a lightweight (‘You’ve only had one sip, for goodness’ sake!’), but Rachel felt on edge with nerves. Wendy had never been one for pulling any punches or holding back, especially after a drink. She pushed her glass fractionally away, determined to keep her head clear for whatever turn this conversation might take.
‘Is that a hammock down there?’ Wendy was saying, squinting down the garden. ‘I’ve always wanted one of those. You’ve got it looking ever so nice here, Rachel.’ She elbowed her daughter. ‘See? This is how grown-ups live, Becky. Not in tiny shoebox flats with sex-pest neighbours and a bookie’s downstairs. Proper nice houses and gardens, with hammocks and shrub roses. When are you going to get on and live like that, eh?’
‘Oh Mum, don’t start,’ Becca said. ‘The sex pest moved out a year ago anyway, there’s a nice old lady there now. A nice old lady, by the way, who doesn’t go around making pointed remarks and trying to guilt-trip her own daughter about her so-called shortcomings. Just saying.’
‘She sounds like she’s kidding herself to me,’ Wendy sniffed, hitching up her skirt a little as the sun threatened to make an appearance. Then she turned to Rachel. ‘Tell me now, Rachel. I’ve been trying to get this one to sort her life out recently. Has she done anything about finding herself a nice man?’
Becca groaned loudly, the look of indignation on her face so comical that Rachel couldn’t help a snigger. ‘Well, there is this one guy she seems quite keen on,’ she replied.
‘What? Who?’ said both Becca and Wendy at almost exactly the same time.
‘He’s Welsh, he plays the trombone and he’s learning to cook,’ Rachel said, unable to resist it.
‘Oh, shut up, you, I thought you were on my side,’ Becca said, sticking out her tongue.
‘Go on. Sounds good,’ Wendy urged. ‘I do like a Welshman, I have to say.’
‘Don’t listen to her, Mum, she’s winding me up. He’s in his seventies, I’ve just been helping him cook a few things,’ Becca said. ‘And before you say it, no, it’s not some creepy dad substitute, so don’t even bother going there, all right? Anyway, I’ve actually fixed him up with a new lady friend.’
‘You didn’t tell me this. When?’ Rachel asked. ‘And who’s the lucky lady?’ Honestly, her sister, what was she like? She just could not stop herself.
Becca looked sheepish all of a sudden, though. ‘Er . . . Well, don’t get mad, but . . .’
Oh no. Now what had she done? ‘What?’
‘It’s Rita. Rita Blackwell.’
‘Rita Blackwell, my client?’ Rachel shook her head in disbelief. ‘And how did this come about? Tell me not during her exercise session. Becca?’
‘Well . . .’
‘After you promised me and everything?’ Her sister’s expression was so rueful and you-got-me that Rachel needed to hear no more. She put her head in her hands and shook with mirth, just at the sheer badness of her.
‘I’m sorry,’ Becca mumbled, shame-faced. ‘But they were so sweet together, Rach. So happy. I think it’s actually going to be a really cool summer romance for them, you know.’
‘I apologize for my daughter,’ Wendy said, although she was laughing too. ‘She is a dreadful one for poking her nose in. I can’t think where she gets it from.’
Becca and Wendy looked at each other then, and it was such a teasing, affectionate sort of look that Rachel found herself experiencing a sudden twist of envy, a pang of longing. She wished she had somebody to be like that with, so easy and good-humoured. She sipped her smoothie and then found herself blurting out, ‘I hope when my girls are grown up, I get on with them like you two do.’ Her cheeks flamed as they both turned to her in surprise. God! How much rum was in that drink?
‘What a lovely thing to say,’ Wendy replied, putting a hand to her plump brown cleavage.
‘You do get on with them. You’re great with your kids,’ Becca told her.
Rachel pulled a face. ‘Not all the time. And especially not with Mabel right now. Most days I feel like I’m getting it completely wrong.’
‘Oh, sweetheart, take it from me, every mum feels like that,’ Wendy said at once. ‘And you’ve got a teenager now as well – a teenage daughter.’ She gave Becca a meaningful look. ‘We all know how hellish they can be. The things your dad and I had to put up with, with Miss Lady here. You just have to grit your teeth and hope that they come out the other side and turn back into half-decent human beings. And she will.’ She patted Rachel’s hand, a look of understanding in her eyes. ‘In the meantime, there’s always a boozy smoothie to get you through.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Rachel smiled at her stepmother as if seeing her for the first time. Maybe it was just the alcohol, but she felt almost as if the ice field between them was splintering, breaking apart after years of permafrost. ‘Wendy, I need to tell you something,’ she heard herself saying in the next moment and then rushed straight on before she could change her mind. ‘I found out the truth about Emily – my mum. A woman at the funeral said something weird, and I went digging. I . . .’ Her voice cracked. ‘She wasn’t exactly the mother I thought she was.’
Wendy nodded, not seeming terribly surprised. ‘Becky mentioned you’d been up to Manchester when –’ she gestured at Rachel’s face. ‘When that happened. I wondered if you’d found something out.’ Reaching forward, she took Rachel’s hand in hers. ‘I’m sorry. That must have been a shock.’
So she had known. ‘Yeah.’ And the rest. She risked a glance up at Wendy’s face, dreading seeing pity in the other woman’s eyes, but found only compassion. ‘I wish Dad had said something, you know. Told me himself. Why did he let me go on believing a lie?’
Wendy sighed. ‘He should have told you, I agree. I did badger him about it. I even wondered if I should mention something myself, but it wasn’t my place. You’d never have believed me, anyway.’
‘No.’
‘Besides, you know what he was like. Typical man: no good at big emotional dramas. And he loved you, too, of course. He didn’t want to be the one who shattered your heart with the truth.’
Rachel nodded. It all sounded plausible. ‘Oh well,’ she said, trying to shrug it off. Having Wendy being so sympathetic and nice was making her feel uncomfortably vulnerable. ‘I know it’s not the end of the world, or anything.’
Wendy was silent for a moment. ‘She did love you, you know, I’m sure of it. Terry didn’t talk about her very much, but every now and then he would let slip something so sweet.’
Rachel’s eyes felt hot and gritty, as if the tears were just waiting for an excuse to come. ‘Like what?’
‘Oh gosh, let me think. Well, back when Becky was little, your dad was really surprised that I didn’t know the Happy Nappy Song.’
‘The happy nappy song? What’s that?’
‘Exactly. I asked the same. Turns out it was this song that Emily always used to sing as she changed your nappy – I don’t remember the words now – but obviously she’d made it up, invented this whole little routine with you, to make you laugh. Terry assumed that every mother knew it, that it was just this thing we all did, but no.’
Rachel didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment. That was sweet. Personally she’d always been in a tearing hurry to get nappy changes over and done with as quickly as possible, rather than make a song and dance of the occasion.
‘And she made lots of your clothes, did you know that? I think Terry was a bit taken aback when I kept buying baby clothes for Becky, rather than making them myself.’ Wendy sipped her smoothie and looked down at the table for a moment. ‘You know, reading between the lines, I think nowadays she’d have been treated for postnatal depression,’ she said slowly, cautiously, ‘but obviously back then, it just didn’t have a name. You got on with it and coped – or you didn’t. And for Emily, coming as she did from a family of big drinkers, the booze was her way out. Sadly.’
‘Yes.’ There was silence for a moment. Postnatal depression. It did make sense. Rachel knew herself that you could love a baby, and have wanted that baby, and yet feel unable to cope, as if a fog was around you. She’d been lucky enough to have counselling to help her through, but that hadn’t been an option for her mum. Her eyes prickled again at the thought of the happy nappy song, and the home-made clothes. She had been loved, though. She had been looked after, until things went wrong.
‘I’m just sorry that . . .’ Now it was Wendy’s turn to falter. ‘Sorry that you and I never really hit it off when you were growing up. I wanted to be a mum to you, but obviously you can’t simply walk in and take someone’s place, I get that now.’ Her mouth twisted, her eyes sad. ‘I just fell in love with your dad, though, that’s all. I never wanted to make anyone unhappy.’
She had such an open face, Wendy. Behind all the teasing and the banter, there was something so genuine about her, so sincere, Rachel thought. ‘It was my fault, too,’ she admitted quietly. ‘I never gave you a proper chance. The thing is, the night you went away on honeymoon –’ But the next words stuck in her throat, jammed there, hard and painful. Oh God. Could she really do this? Tell them what had happened, after nearly three decades of silence?
‘Yes?’ Wendy prompted.
Rachel took a deep breath and then choked out the story, sentence by horrible sentence. Sonia’s spare room. Frank’s warm hand on her little-girl thigh. The cigarette smoke in her nostrils, a smell she’d never been able to stand since. Her shrill scream of fear . . .
Wendy burst into shocked sobs as the words came out, her shoulders shaking. Becca too had tears running down her cheeks. Rachel, by contrast, felt numb, dispassionate even; the only one of the three not to show any outward emotion. ‘It kind of changed everything for me,’ she finished by mumbling.
‘Oh my darling, of course it did. Of course it did,’ Wendy cried, hugging her, tears dripping onto Rachel’s back. ‘That bastard, Frank! That bastard! I could kill him. I could punch his lights out. What were you, ten? The same age as your Scarlet? The dirty old pervert. I swear, if I ever see him again, I’ll wring his bloody neck. I’ll put cigarettes out in his eyes.’
There was something oddly comforting about having someone so furious on your behalf, even when their threats of violence were worryingly graphic. ‘It’s all right,’ Rachel managed to say eventually. ‘It was a long time ago. I was just frightened, that was all, and freaked out. And I blamed you, even though it wasn’t your fault.’
‘Oh, Rachel,’ said Wendy, her face wet against Rachel’s. ‘I understand. Of course you did. Because I’d taken your daddy away just when you needed him most. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry that happened.’
Becca, who’d remained quiet for perhaps the longest period of her waking life until then, came over and hugged them both. And as if it had been planned, as if it heralded some official celestial benediction, the sun chose that moment to slide out from its cloud cover and shine down on them, a small interlocking triangle of women in a suburban garden. It was more than that, though. It was the sound of a slate being scrubbed clean, a new page turned, a unifying pact being made without anyone needing to say another word. And boy, did it feel good.