The Secrets We Left Behind Read online

  And as I thought back to this now, I felt a ripple of apprehension. It was the same feeling I’d had just after my mum died; a sense that I had absolutely no control over what was about to happen; that I was completely powerless, as though I’d been swept off the shore and was being carried out to sea.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Newquay, Cornwall, March 1976

  Jo wiped her eyes with the scented tissue the ward sister had given her. ‘Is there someone we can ring for you, Joanna? Grandma, perhaps? Or an auntie or uncle?’ Jo shook her head. It hadn’t occurred to her how small her family was until now. Her auntie Margaret had died of a burst appendix a week before she was born, and Granny Pawley, her mother’s mother, had had a massive stroke just after Christmas last year. She hadn’t seen her father since she was ten and anyway, he’d moved to the other side of the world with his girlfriend.

  ‘It’s a hard thing to cope with at your age,’ Sister said, parting Jo’s shoulder. ‘I lost both my parents when I wasn’t much older than you. It’ll get easier with time.’

  Jo nodded and thanked her for all she and the other nurses had done, then she picked up the small bag of her mother’s possessions and half ran out through the double doors and along the corridors into the weak sunshine. People were parking in the hospital car park; how many would get back into their cars newly bereaved, remembering the previous visit’s complacent ‘See you tomorrow’? On the bus home she was aware that her eyes were red and puffy from crying, so she picked up a newspaper someone had left on the seat and paid her fare without looking at the conductor. Wilson resigns, the headline read. She stared at the pictures of Harold Wilson on the front page, but although she read the paragraph underneath twice, the words wouldn’t register; it could have been in Greek for all she could take in. She tossed the paper onto the seat next to her and turned to the window, leaning her forehead against the cool glass and closing her eyes for the rest of the journey.

  She couldn’t face going straight home, so she went to the beach and headed down to the shoreline, where she knew the sound of the waves breaking on the sand would soothe her. She stood, looking out across the slate-coloured ocean. The sun had gone in now; the sky was the same hue as the sea and the clouds were swollen, puffed up with rain. She didn’t move when the rain began to fall, a few large drops at first, then more, falling at a slant, fast and sharp, like a million needles piercing the surface of the dark water. She unfolded the death certificate. Chronic liver failure, it said; and alcohol-induced hepatitis. Her hands itched to rip it up, to pull it to pieces and throw it down onto the sand and stamp on it. But the sensible part of her knew she’d need it to arrange the funeral, so she folded it again and shoved it back into the pocket of her parka before it got too wet.

  Before her mum had become ill, they’d talked about moving, not just away from Newquay, but right out of Cornwall. It was great living near the sea, but this place didn’t have much else going for it; it was dead all through the winter, and in summer it was swamped with tourists who spoke to you like you were scum. A few seagulls were standing around in the rain, looking as though they didn’t quite know what they were supposed to be doing. Why didn’t they fly off ; they had wings, didn’t they? Stupid birds.

  As she stood watching them, the realisation began to creep over her that she needed to make plans, think about what to do next. She could stay here in Newquay, or she could pack up the flat, draw her savings out of her Post Office account and go somewhere different. It was her decision. Maybe she should try London; she’d heard it was easier to get a job there and the pay was better, and it would be good to see what it was like to live somewhere other than this shithole. The possibilities tumbled around in her head, but she couldn’t seem to distinguish her thoughts; she couldn’t think straight. Perhaps she should talk to her mum about it? But then she remembered.

  It was late afternoon now and it was starting to get dark. She could feel the rain running down the back of her neck so she reached behind her and pulled the hood of her parka up over her head. Her legs felt heavy as she trudged along the rain-dimpled sand, past clumps of black seaweed with shards of wood, plastic water bottles and other bits of rubbish tangled into it. She carried on walking towards the wooden steps that led up onto the road. At the bottom of the steps she paused and took a few lungfuls of the clean sea air, noticing the salty taste of it, the sharp tangy smell, then she looked back at the sea, shrouded now, and smothered in a grey blanket of rain. She wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her parka and headed up the steps, across the road and homewards through the town.

  The rain was hammering the pavements and the noise it made drowned out any other sound. Coming down in stair-rods, Granny Pawley would have said. People were hurrying, trying to get home from work before they got too wet. Jo didn’t change her pace; she was wet now anyway. As she walked, she watched the pattern the rain made in the puddles, circles that appeared and disappeared; bubbles that bloomed then popped. She kept her head down; she didn’t want any of the neighbours seeing her and asking after her mum. Not that anyone was likely to want to hang around and chat in this weather, and come to think of it, people tended not to ask these days, anyway. Her mum had borrowed money and failed to return it too many times. The rain hit the pavements so hard it bounced off again and created a mist which gusted along the black tarmac. Wide, rippling streams of water ran noisily along the gutters. It felt right somehow. It felt like an ending.

  For the last few years, they’d lived on one of the tattiest roads in Newquay, and today it looked even worse than usual. There was as much furniture outside on the street as in the houses, by the look of it. She passed a double mattress propped up against the wall and a ripped armchair with an old reel-to-reel tape recorder on the seat, all getting sodden in the rain. Sometimes, she struggled to remember what things had been like before, when they’d lived in a nice house in a nice road where people mowed their lawns on Saturdays and washed their cars on Sundays. She couldn’t even picture her bedroom in that house now.

  When she let herself back in, it felt like she’d been away for ten years rather than ten hours. Time was all wrong in hospitals. The flat felt cold and damp, more so than usual. She stooped to pick up the post, walked through to the kitchen and switched on the light, waiting while the fluorescent tubes flickered into life, then she turned on the radio – a reflex action – just in time to hear Abba joyfully singing the chorus of ‘Mamma Mia’. She turned the radio off, threw the post onto the table and went over to the sink where the pan from last night’s spaghetti Bolognese was soaking in the bowl, a greasy orange scum floating on top of the cold washing-up water. Apart from the tea and biscuits they’d given her at the hospital this morning, she hadn’t eaten a thing since last night, so still in her coat, she opened the fridge, ate some corned beef with her fingers, then poured a glass of milk and drank it straight down. She felt in her pocket for the tiny lump of hash Rob Trelawney had given her yesterday, then took her coat off and sat at the table to roll a spliff. She wasn’t very good at it, not like Rob, but then he smoked all the time. To Rob, spliffs were like cigarettes. She lit the thin, inexpertly rolled joint and took a deep drag, letting the calm wash over her. It definitely numbed things a bit. That’s what her mum used to say about drinking. ‘It’s only a drop of sherry, Jo-Jo, just to take the edge off .’

  Some of the post was for her, some for her mum. There was a reminder to take her books back to the library, and a pink envelope in Sheena Smith’s handwriting. Sheena was one of the few girls she’d kept in touch with from school. She opened the envelope; Thank You card for the tights and bath salts Jo had given her for her birthday. There was a gas bill and a letter from the hospital, both addressed to her mother. The gas bill was a red reminder; Jo slid it between the salt and pepper pots to remind herself to phone them tomorrow. And she should phone Mr Rundle, the landlord, too, and the Social Security; and there would be loads of others. She’d better make a list. The hospital letter sounded like a telling-
off because her mum had ‘failed to attend’ for her fortnightly blood test. Another appointment had been made and would she please notify them if she was unable to keep it. The letter went on about wasting time and using up an appointment that another patient might be able to take blah blah blah. Jo snatched up a green felt tip pen that was lying in the fruit bowl on top of some wrinkled apples, turned the letter over and scrawled on the back, I did not attend the appointment on the 26th because as you should bloody well know, I’ve been in your stupid hospital for six weeks and anyway I died this morning. Hope that’s a good enough excuse for not attending the next one. Yours, Marie Casey (deceased).

  She read what she’d written, then tore the letter into shreds and tossed it into the sink. How could it be that, just last night, she’d been sitting in the living room watching Top of the Pops, and now, twenty-four hours later, she no longer had a mum? She took another toke on the spliff and ignored the tears that were rolling down her cheeks. She’d been almost relieved when her mum was admitted to hospital; at least the nurses would know what to do. Also, it meant that, for a while, she could pretend her mother wasn’t an alcoholic, that she was in hospital for some normal reason, like gallstones or piles or a hysterectomy. Jo had gone in to see her most nights, but her mum was often so drugged up she was barely conscious. Last night, she’d seemed a bit better, although her skin was a sickly yellow and there were brown shadows under both her eyes. She’d even talked about a holiday in Spain. ‘We’ll save up,’ she’d said, her voice stronger than it had been for weeks. ‘I’ll get a little job when I’m back on my feet. I was a cashier before I met your dad, you know; I did double-entry bookkeeping for two years, so I’ll be able to find something.’ Then her eyes had filled up and she reached for Jo’s hand. ‘You shouldn’t have to be the one who goes to work, not at your age, not when you’re such a clever girl. You should have stayed on at school and done your A levels. Oh, Jo-Jo.’ She turned her head away on the pillow. ‘What sort of mother have I been?’

  For a fleeting moment, she wanted to say, A lousy one, if you want to know the truth. A really bloody shitty one. But she knew that wasn’t entirely fair. When she was little, she’d thought her mum was wonderful, the best mum in the world, and that had given her a dilemma, because although she knew she wanted to have her own babies as soon as she grew up, she couldn’t imagine living in a different house to her mum. So when she was old enough, she’d decided, she would buy a big pink house and she and her children and her mum would all live there together. She hadn’t given much thought to a husband; she didn’t think she’d need one.

  She realised her mum was crying.

  ‘It’s all right, Mum.’ Gently, she pulled her hand away and stood up. ‘Listen, I’ll come and see you again tomorrow, okay?’ She kissed her mum’s clammy forehead and walked out of the ward, keen to be home in time for Top of the Pops.

  Then in the middle of the night, the ward sister had telephoned and told her that her mum had taken a turn for the worse. The minicab cost almost two pounds, but it got her there quickly. She’d sat next to the bed for nearly three hours, listening to her mother’s laboured breathing and leaning in closer every time her eyelids flickered. And then at just after five in the morning, her mother had smiled for the first time in weeks, a warm, beatific smile that came more from the eyes than the mouth, and then she’d closed those once-pretty green eyes for the last time, and died.

  Jo gathered up all the envelopes, opened the pedal bin with her foot and threw them in, thank-you card and all, then she put her hand in the cold, greasy washing-up water, fished out the torn-up pieces of the hospital letter and threw them in on top. She finished the spliff then walked across the hall and into her mother’s room. The last time she’d been in here was the day the ambulance came. She pushed the door open slowly. The room felt chilly and smelt stale, like unwashed clothes. The laundry basket in the corner was full, and she felt a pang of guilt. She could have taken this lot to the launderette, couldn’t she? Six weeks. She could have come in here and changed the bed, at least. There was a sticky glass and a Kellogg’s Corn Flakes mug on the bedside cabinet, along with a jumble of pills, a box of tissues and a pot of Nivea face cream. She slid open the top drawer; more pills, more creams and ointments. She picked up one of the tubes and smiled when she read the label. She remembered her mum’s voice, incredulous: ‘Anusol, I ask you! Why not call it arsehole and have done with it?’

  When she was a little girl and they’d lived in Padstow, she’d loved going into her mum’s room because it smelt nice and there were pretty bottles on the dressing table and necklaces hung over the mirror, and sometimes, her mother would let her try on her shoes and clip-clop about in them like a grown-up lady. But this room bore no traces of that mother. There was still a perfume bottle on the dressing table, but it was covered with dust; her mother hadn’t worn perfume or jewellery for years. Under the bed there were two carrier bags full of bottles, mostly sherry or Martini, which was what her mum drank in the evenings; during the day, she’d sometimes slip some vodka into her tea when she thought Jo wasn’t looking. Those damn bottles. She remembered wondering why her mum always took a clinking carrier bag with her when she went to the corner shop, and one day, she watched out of the window as her mum stopped at a litter bin, glanced around and then lifted the carrier bag and tipped the bottles into the bin. It was only when Friday came around and Jo saw the dustmen taking the lids off the bins all along the road that she understood. That was back in the days when her mum still cared what people thought.

  Jo tried to think of the old mum, the mum who used to know so many songs that you could say any word you thought of and she’d know a song with that word in it; the mum who used to fold a sheet of paper, make little cuts or tears in it and get Jo to tap it with her finger and shout Abracadabra and then, magically, open the paper out to reveal a string of paper dollies holding hands, or a beautiful peacock with a fanned tail, or a swan with its wings outstretched. For a second, the memory was so strong that her mum, the funny, happy, laughing mum, felt intensely real and present, but then it was gone, leaving an imprint on the air like when you’ve just blown out a candle. For the first time since she was a little girl, she climbed into her mother’s bed and cried herself to sleep.

  *

  Mr Rundle was very sorry to hear of her mother’s death. She was welcome to stay in the flat until the end of March, he told her, and she wasn’t to worry about the two months’ rent they owed. ‘You’ll have enough to think about, young miss.’ His craggy forehead wrinkled as he lit his pipe. ‘I’m not short of a few bob these days, and your mum was a good tenant, mostly.’ He asked about the funeral and Jo admitted she had no idea what to do, so he and Mrs Rundle took over the arrangements, much to Jo’s relief. A week later the three of them, together with Rob Trelawney and his parents, her friends Sheena and Jackie, a nurse from the hospital and Miss Bradwell, her mum’s social worker, sat round on chairs and packing cases drinking weak tea out of disposable cups; Jo hadn’t realised you were supposed to provide tea and cakes after a funeral and she’d given away most of the crockery. There hadn’t been a lot to get rid of. The WRVS and the Salvation Army had taken most of the household things, and Mrs Rundle had helped her bag up her mum’s stuff for the church jumble. It fitted into four dustbin bags; not much to show for a whole life. Apart from clothes, her mum owned very little. She’d sold most of her jewellery ages ago, except for a Victorian cameo brooch that had belonged to her own mother. It was the only thing Jo wanted to keep; it would remind her of her mum and of Granny Pawley at the same time. Her own things, the stuff she wasn’t taking with her, filled another two bags and a couple of packing cases – her old record player, the cassette recorder, her books, records and tapes, a few old toys she’d hung on to. Once she’d made the decision, getting rid of her things was easier than she’d expected. She’d hung on to too much; those things were all part of her childhood, and that was behind her now.

  The tiny funeral
party picked at the ham and tomato sandwiches, mushroom vol-au-vents and fairy cakes that Rob’s mum and Mrs Rundle had made that morning. No one said much, and no one stayed for long.

  She gave a week’s notice at the Co-op and told Carol and Geoff, who owned the pub where she worked three evenings a week, that she wouldn’t be back, then she wrote notes to Sheena and Jackie promising to stay in touch. When she’d seen Rob and his mum out after the funeral, she’d said she’d pop round to say goodbye, but she knew she wouldn’t. She hated goodbyes, especially as she still quite liked Rob. She was going to stay with her mum’s cousin in London, she told them all. No one questioned her, not even Miss Bradwell. Only Mr Rundle had any doubts. Being a dyed-in-the-wool Cornishman, he was suspicious of Londoners who, he said, had no consideration. ‘Noisy beggars, they London folk,’ he grumbled when he came to collect the keys. ‘Come down here in summer with their cars and motorbikes, playing their transistor radios on the beach and leaving all their mess behind. Never see sight nor sign of ‘em come wintertime.’ He shook his head. And London itself, he told her, was a filthy place, full of people you couldn’t trust. ‘Streets paved with thieves and blaggards.’ He puffed furiously on his pipe. ‘Steal a wooden leg from a cripple, they Londoners.’ When he dropped her off at Newquay station with her duffle bag and her mum’s only good suitcase, he pushed a five pound note into her hand. ‘You look after yourself, my lover; ‘t ain’t right, a young maid all alone up there in that place.’