Chapter 52

THE SUITCASE

BROMLEY, KENT—3:41 PM, FEBRUARY 27, 2011

“And I never did tell her,” said Bet. “It would’ve been a lie.”

“A lie that would have given her some comfort,” said Tash. She was crying and looked at her father. “Did you know this?”

He shook his head, his face pale.

“You let her die,” said Tash.

“I never let her die, stupid girl,” said Bet. “And lots of women died in childbirth back then. She was young, remember. Her body not ready for it. And it was destiny. It was written.”

“Written where?”

“Wherever our futures are written, I don’t know,” cried the old woman. “You don’t believe this stuff. I can tell.”

Tash glared at her, her mouth open.

Bet went on. “Well I didn’t, neither. I hated it. It was all crap. My grandad, he made a few bob out of it. Séances. Psychic readings. But by the time the war came along, no one was interested. Everyone busy surviving. I tell you, if I thought it would’ve made me rich, I’d have been on that stage or in some posh cow’s sitting room, spouting bullshit about those who’d passed over.”

They lapsed into silence.

Then Tash asked, “Could my mother see?”

“’Course she could,” said Bet. “We all bloody can. It’s a curse.”

Tash thought about her mum, her birth so deadly. Rose coming into the world had caused her own mother to die. Her conception came about because Grace was raped by her own father.

Tash shuddered. Her skin crawled.

My great-grandfather’s my grandfather, she thought.

“Where did he go?” she said.

“Who?” said Bet.

“Him. Derek.”

Bet shook her head. “Never saw him again. Happy not to.”

“He should pay for what he did.” Tash looked at her dad. “Don’t you think?”

He said, “There’s always judgment. Maybe not here. Maybe in the afterlife. But there’s always a judgment. He’ll pay, darlin’. He’ll pay.”

Tash’s eyes dropped to the coffee table. The biscuits were untouched. Seeing the food made her tummy rumble. But she would bear the hunger. It was nothing compared to Grace’s agony.

“We have to go,” she said. “I have to pick up Jasmine.” She rose and looked at Bet, sitting in her armchair. For the first time since they’d arrived, the old woman looked her age. She looked fragile. She looked near death. Maybe she was ready for it. Maybe she’d wanted to reveal this terrible secret, a confession before her passing.

Tash told her, “Thank you,” but there was very little warmth in the gratitude.

Tash’s dad matter-of-factly kissed Bet on the cheek.

He came to Tash, waiting by the door. Bet stared out of the window.

Her dad told Tash, “Come on, let’s leave her to it.”

They turned to leave.

“Hang on a minute,” said Bet.

Facing her again, Tash saw the old woman lift herself out of the chair and toddle over to a large, white wardrobe. She opened its door and said, “Come over here and help me, for Christ’s sake.”

When Tash went over, Bet pointed to the bottom of the wardrobe.

“In there, underneath those shoeboxes,” she said.

“What am I looking for?” Tash squatted and reached into the wardrobe. It smelled musty. The odor of mothballs.

“Shift a few of those boxes; you’ll see it.”

Tash obeyed, piling the shoeboxes to the side. She saw something and took it out, laying it on the carpet. It was a red suitcase. It looked ancient. Rust covered the hinges. The casing was split and torn. One of the clasps was missing.

“It was my grandad’s,” said Bet. “I got no need for it. Nor the terrible old things inside it, neither.”