My Mother's Silence (ARC) Read online

  When dinner is over, we all move into the sitting room. Mum sits in the wing chair near the fireplace, her cane propped against the arm. Bill appoints himself to put the lights on the tree like Dad used to, which makes me smile. The boys tear into the ornament boxes and even Emily gets up off the sofa and starts unwrapping ornaments and baubles.

  ‘Are you going to play for us?’ she says. She unwraps a snow globe with the New York skyline that I sent Mum one year after I’d played a gig upstate. As she shakes the globe, sparkles float upwards and the top of the Chrysler Building lights up. It’s tacky, just like the gifts I’ve brought with me this time.

  ‘Yes, please do, Skye,’ Fiona says. ‘We’d love that.’

  Robbie steals the snow globe away from Emily. It falls to the floor and the boys scramble for it under the sofa. I sigh. Snow globes, oven gloves, sunglasses and beach towels. There’s only one real gift that I have left to give.

  ‘OK.’ I take Dad’s guitar out of the case and sit on the sofa. Emily sits next to me.

  ‘How about some Christmas songs?’ I say to her. ‘You can sing along.’

  I launch into some songs for the kids. ‘Jingle Bells’, ‘Frosty the Snowman’, ‘Winter Wonderland’. Bill finishes the lights and Fiona supervises the boys putting the baubles and other ornaments on the tree.

  Emily watches me play but doesn’t really sing. I try to encourage her to join in, but she shakes her head. I keep strumming and singing, occasionally glancing over at Mum. On nights like this of old, she would have joined in singing carols, her voice high and slightly flat, like a church soprano. Now, though, her lips are clamped shut and she’s staring at the wall. I can’t tell if she’s enjoying the music, or if the memories are too painful.

  ‘Can you play “Warrior Woman”?’ Emily says, taking me by surprise. ‘I like that one.’

  ‘Um…’ I glance at Mum, who doesn’t react, then at Bill, who nods.

  ‘That’s a good one,’ he says.

  ‘OK,’ I say. It’s not the happiest song in the world, but hopefully it won’t spoil the mood. Mum’s probably never even heard it. I begin playing the opening arpeggios. Actually, I want Mum to hear it, because I’m proud of it. I want her to know that, despite evidence to the contrary, I’m not a complete failure.

  I sing the opening verse. Fiona stops to listen. Emily mouths along with the words. From nowhere, a chill seems to seep into the room. I keep playing, but my throat has gone dry. Mum’s head snaps in our direction. Emily has begun to sing:

  ‘I’ve played the joker,

  I’ve played the ace.

  I’ve seen the love dying on your face.

  But I’ll rise up from your cold embrace

  ’cause I’m a Warrior Woman.’

  She doesn’t have Ginny’s special voice. Still, her manner and bearing, the way her blonde hair shines in the twinkling lights – it all just feels uncanny.

  Mum opens her mouth and closes it again. Her eyes are glassy and too bright. Emily hasn’t noticed and keeps singing. I try to catch Bill’s attention, but he’s busy with the boys, who are looking at something on his phone. My neck is tense, my fingers tingly and strange. But I keep playing to the end.

  When I finish the final riff, I put the guitar down and begin clapping. Fiona joins in too. ‘That was great, Emily,’ I say. ‘The song really suits you. Take a bow.’

  Emily’s face is flushed a perfect shade of rose. She takes a mock bow, and Bill joins in clapping too. She straightens up, beaming—

  The cane thunks to the floor. The chair creaks. Mum grips the arms of the chair and heaves herself to her feet. Bill stops clapping, exchanges a worried look with Fiona. They both take a step towards Mum, but she picks up the cane and waves it to fend them off.

  I feel once again like I’m underwater and can’t breathe. Mum hobbles over to Emily. No one else moves.

  Mum goes up to Emily, and places a thin, veined hand on her cheek. Emily flinches.

  ‘That was lovely, darling,’ Mum says. ‘I wanted to hear you sing again. It’s been so many years.’

  Emily’s face becomes a frozen grimace. I feel like I – or someone – should intervene…

  Mum drops her hand. She hobbles to the stairs. Then, she turns back.

  ‘Why did you do it, Ginny?’ She wags a finger at Emily. ‘How could you have done that to me?’

  22

  It’s hard to see a way back from this. Mum goes up the stairs, Emily looks stunned, her eyes shiny with tears. Fiona goes to comfort her, and after a few minutes, she and the children leave to go back to the cottage. Bill lingers at the bottom of the stairs as if he’s unsure what to do. I stare at the Christmas tree, so beautiful and sparkly. Right now, it seems like a joke.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say when the others are gone.

  ‘Yeah,’ Bill says, grimacing. Upstairs, Mum’s door closes. The footsteps fade away. ‘You have to talk to Emily,’ I say. ‘Tell her that it isn’t her fault. That none of it is her fault.’

  ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘I will. But I think we’re best not mentioning or talking about Ginny around Mum, don’t you?’

  I know he’s probably right, but still I feel torn. I think of the conversations I’ve had with Mum, skirting closer and closer to her feelings. I’d thought that we were making some positive strides forwards, towards clearing the air. I thought that with Bill’s help, we could agree that Ginny’s death wasn’t deliberate; and put Mum’s fears on that account to rest.

  ‘I don’t know…’ I say.

  ‘Come on, Skye,’ Bill says. ‘You saw how Emily reacted – which was perfectly understandable. At least let Mum get used to her a little. Let them get used to each other.’

  ‘OK.’ I sigh. ‘If you think it will help.’

  ‘I do,’ he says. ‘I’ll tell Fiona and the others. No more rocking the boat.’ He puts on his coat to leave. ‘You OK here? You could sleep at ours if you want.’

  ‘No, thanks,’ I say. ‘Someone needs to be here, especially now. I’ll check on Mum before I go to bed.’

  ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow – new day.’ He gives me a wave and goes out the door.

  No more rocking the boat. I run my fingers over the smooth wood of Dad’s guitar and put it in the case. I feel sad, because other than Mum’s outburst, I was enjoying myself. I’d forgotten how much fun it is to play music without expectation or pressure. The simple joy of singing songs with my family. Now, though, it seems that Dad’s guitar will need to stay in its case, and the memories – good and bad – will need to stay under the carpet.

  I tidy up the sitting room and kitchen, and make a cup of tea for Mum. When I take it upstairs, her door is slightly ajar and the room is dark. She’s asleep – or pretending to be. I take the tea to my room and drink it. I frown over at Ginny’s empty bed. Mum’s words come back into my head like a vinyl record with a tick. ‘Why did you do it?’

  As I get in bed, I think of my vision of Ginny on the rocks; the torn up coach ticket; the empty grave… I lie awake for a long time and go to sleep with the light on.

  The next morning when I wake up, rain is hammering on the roof and the shutter is banging again in the wind. On the plus side, my breathing is easier and I can no longer taste salt water. On the minus side… just about everything else after last night. I get out of bed and dress in jeans and a black long-sleeved jumper. Then I brave going downstairs.

  From the kitchen there’s the sound of a wooden spoon battering the edge of a bowl. My heart speeds up as I go in the door.

  ‘Mum,’ I say. ‘Hi. Are you OK?’

  She stops mixing and looks up at me from the table. For a second her face flickers with something like shame.

  ‘I’ve made coffee,’ she says.

  ‘Thanks.’ I go over and pour myself a cup. How am I supposed to act? What on earth do I say?

  ‘Lorna’s coming over this morning,’ she says. ‘To help out with the baking. It’s going to take a lot of effort to keep everyone in mince pies and bi
scuits.’

  Biscuits is a conversation I can usually handle – but not this morning. I know I promised Bill I wouldn’t upset her or mention Ginny, but this morning she seems lucid. It seems a good opportunity to find out how deeply her separation from reality goes, before closing the subject down for good.

  ‘Mum, do you remember last night? Emily sang. You… had a bit of an outburst.’

  ‘Emily?’ The confused look is back. Don’t rock the boat.

  ‘Your granddaughter.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, such a lovely girl. But too thin, if you ask me.’

  ‘Do you remember, Mum? You thought that she was Ginny. She does look a bit like her… I guess.’

  ‘Ginny? No, don’t be ridiculous.’ The cold, hard shell snaps firmly back in place. ‘Ginny is dead.’

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I say. ‘But last night Emily kind of… freaked out because of what happened.’

  ‘Well… I don’t know.’ The lines in her brow narrow into a frown. ‘Do you like your shortbread with chocolate on top, or plain?’

  ‘Plain, Mum.’

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Plain. Perhaps with a dusting of sugar.’

  I debate whether or not I should continue the conversation. But as the oven timer beeps with the first batch of mince pies ready to come out, I decide to leave it there. Bill and Fiona will have to do their bit to clear the air, for Emily’s sake. I’m glad, however, that in the light of day, Mum is aware that Ginny is dead, and Emily is her granddaughter. That’s something, at least.

  Mum looks towards the oven and starts to get up. ‘I’ll get them,’ I say. ‘Even I can manage that.’ I keep my tone light, indicating a truce.

  ‘Thank you,’ Mum says, short and clipped. ‘My back is a little stiff today. It must be this awful weather. I think it’s supposed to clear later, though.’

  ‘Hard to believe,’ I say.

  ‘Yes, well, you know what they say. Don’t like the weather in Scotland…’

  ‘Wait five minutes,’ we say together.

  I smile at Mum, grateful for even the smallest kernel of solidarity. I take the tray of mince pies out of the oven and set them on a wire rack.

  ‘I hope it does clear,’ I say. ‘Because those little boys are going to be climbing the walls if they don’t get out. Speaking of which…’ I take a breath. ‘Do you think I might take a few of those mince pies over to Skybird? I want to thank Mr Hamilton for helping me the other day.’

  Mum stops mixing and looks up. She seems fully back to her senses now, and it feels like she’s appraising me. I ignore the little stab of annoyance I feel.

  ‘Of course,’ she says. ‘Take what you like. There are some ginger biscuits left too.’

  ‘I think a few mince pies will do,’ I say.

  ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘You’re probably right. He can be a bit touchy about visitors.’

  ‘So he’s not having family come round for Christmas?’

  Mum’s put on a good act of knowing nothing about him, but I’m sure she knows more than she’s letting on.

  ‘He hasn’t mentioned it.’

  ‘That’s a shame.’

  ‘Well,’ she says, sprinkling some flour on the mixing. ‘It’s not the most pleasant thing to spend Christmas alone, but you get through it. It’s just another day that passes. You know?’

  ‘I know, Mum. Spot on.’ Maybe it’s a deserved little dig, but I choose to take it as something else we have in common.

  I put some of the mince pies on a plate and cover them with cling film. As I’m doing so, Mum’s friend Lorna pulls up in her car outside. Perfect timing.

  Mum insists on getting up and hobbling to the door. I don’t stop her. I’m not in the mood for a long chat with Lorna, so I bundle up in a borrowed raincoat and leave by the back door. I clutch the plate and hurry down the lane, bowed against the wind and rain. I pass The Stables and even over the sound of the storm, I hear shrieks and voices. I’m glad I have something to do other than brave the chaos and any lingering effects of last night’s episode. Any excuse to escape from the house and clear my head is welcome right now.

  When I get to the smaller cottage, however, and see the silver Vauxhall parked in front, I experience a flutter of nerves. Which is just stupid. This will take five minutes at most.

  Up close, I can see how much work must have gone into converting the old stone building into a habitable cottage. The rocks and gorse have been cleared, the trees and rhododendron cut back, and the sagging walls reconstructed and repointed. The cottage has been whitewashed with the door painted dark green. On either side of the porch is a conical-shaped topiary in a clay pot. A ceramic plaque next to the bell says ‘Skybird’ in cursive writing, with a line drawing of two seagulls and a sunset.

  The porch roof is so small that I end up standing in a drip getting wet. I ring the bell and also knock firmly.

  I wait: long enough to rethink this. I could leave the mince pies on the doorstep and leave. If he’s in the middle of something, then I’m disturbing him, which isn’t my intention. I’m just about to go when I hear a bark from inside. Kafka. A moment later, the door opens.

  God, I have disturbed him, but not at his painting. He’s standing before me, his head wet, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. One of us is clearly at a disadvantage and I have the feeling it might be me.

  ‘Yes?’ he says tersely. He rakes his wet hair back from his face. Kafka comes out to give me a sniff and a wag of his tail. I bend down to pat him.

  ‘Um, hi,’ I say straightening. ‘Sorry. I… came to thank you. For… rescuing me.’ I keep my eyes focused on his face. OK, that’s a lie. He’s obviously quite fit to have carried me up from the beach and he looks it. He has a scar on the left side of his stomach, like maybe he’s had an appendix removed. Not that I’m looking at his body. Because, really, that would not be called for in this situation.

  ‘I brought you some mince pies.’ I thrust the plate towards him. ‘And, um, it’s wet out here. Can I come in? Just for a second?’

  He sighs, the frown on his face unwavering. ‘Move, Kafka,’ he says. ‘Let her in. I’m going to get dressed.’ He seems to be speaking only to the dog.

  I step inside. I don’t look at the back of him as he walks to the narrow staircase that leads to the bedrooms above. I see him, of course, but I’m not appraising him.

  He gets high marks.

  Kafka nuzzles my hand, his tail still wagging. At least one of them is welcoming. The dog goes over to the rug by the fireplace and lies down, panting. The hearth is black and cold without a fire in it, though one has been laid in the grate, with newspaper balled at the bottom, a layer of twigs, and then logs on top. Clearly, Nick Hamilton is skilled at making fires. As I look around the room, my eye snags on the tartan rug draped on the back of the sofa. Only two days ago, I was lying under that blanket. Naked.

  I can’t stop my mind from going there. He must have lain me down and unwrapped my coat from around me. And then he would have removed my wet clothing: my top, my bra, my pants. Then he would have towel-dried me, or else just put the blanket over me. But either way, in no logical scenario would he have put the blanket over me first to preserve my modesty and then taken my clothing off.

  I’m sure it all happened very quickly. I’m sure his only thought was to get me warm so I didn’t get hypothermia…

  Jesus Christ.

  I should have left the mince pies on the porch.

  Too late. He comes back downstairs wearing jeans and a navy hoodie that brings out the blue in his storm-coloured eyes. It’s then I note that his face is only half-shaved. That must have been what he was doing when I knocked. I feel a little better. How silly to have a half-shaved face.

  ‘Sorry…’ I say again, and then catch myself. ‘Sorry’ is about the most useless word in the English language. I recover with: ‘Do you like mince pies?’

  He gives a little half-smile. ‘I haven’t had a mince pie in two years,’ he says.

  ‘Really?’


  ‘Really.’

  I hold out the plate and he takes it. My hands are quivering. Stupid…

  ‘I didn’t make them,’ I say. ‘My mum and sister-in-law did. They’re good at baking and… things like that. You’ve probably seen that the other cottage is occupied. My brother and his family are staying until New Year’s. They’ve got three kids. I hope they don’t bother you.’

  ‘They haven’t bothered me so far.’ He looks bemused, the meaning clear. I’m the only one who’s disturbed his solitude.

  ‘Yes, well. Fair warning.’

  ‘Fair warning.’

  He turns and takes the plate of mince pies into the kitchen. I don’t know what else to do, so I follow him. This strong, silent shit is starting to annoy me. If he wants me to leave, he should say. If not…

  ‘I guess I should offer you a cup of tea,’ he says.

  ‘That would be nice.’ I throw caution to the wind. ‘Given that you’ve undressed me and breathed into my mouth. I’ve had less intimate experiences with people I’ve had sex with.’

  He laughs, and I feel a little undercurrent between us. He knows that I know. There’s no point in pretending that it was blanket first then clothing off.

  ‘Is that so?’ he says.

  I shrug. ‘I’m sure it was all purely professional on your part. I heard the paramedic. She called you DCI Hamilton.’

  The laughter fades from his face. He turns away and puts the kettle on.

  ‘Are you a DCI?’ I press. ‘Because everyone around here seems to think you’re an artist.’

  He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Just because he rescued me doesn’t give me the right to be asking him personal questions.

  ‘I was a DCI,’ he says, his back to me. ‘Once. Not any more. But in that particular situation when I called for the paramedics, I thought it would help focus their minds on getting here more quickly. Which seems to have been the case.’