I’d been working for about an hour when the doorbell rang. I raced downstairs to see a large envelope on the doormat. I reached to pick it up.
It was addressed to me.
Inside was a canvas, folded twice. The painting was in my mother’s unique style, although unsigned. But it was ruined. Flakes of dried paint lay in its creases, and splodges of black filled the pale blue sky – a childlike attempt at clouds, perhaps. I tipped the envelope upside down, but there was no letter – no clue who sent it.
But I recognised the farmhouse immediately. It was same as the one in the photograph from Ronan Murphy earlier, although the building in the painting looked run-down. Had Ronan Murphy posted it through my door? Was it by my mother?
I flung open the front door, and looked up and down the road. Two cars – a red and a black – were indicating to turn left at the end of the road, and a white van was travelling in the other direction. A young couple stood at the bus stop, and a man with a briefcase hurried along the pavement. I had no way of telling who had delivered the letter.
I slammed the door and leaned my back against it. When had my mother painted this strange painting?
I hadn’t seen all of my mum’s work – many of her paintings were sold when I was young – but as I looked at the picture of the farmhouse, something stirred inside me. I’d seen a similar painting before in a pile I’d brought from Mum’s house in Suffolk, when I’d collected things she’d needed in the care home. I’d intended to hang some – but they’d ended up propped up in the corner of the lounge for ages, and later been transferred to the loft.
I dashed upstairs, pulled down the loft ladder, and looked up, my stomach tipping. There were so many memories up there. Would it be upsetting to start wading through my childhood memorabilia, or souvenirs of happier times with Lawrence? I took a deep breath and climbed the metal steps. I would look at the paintings and come straight back down.
It smelt musty, and always felt odd in the attic, as I shared the space with Angela. No divide had been put up when the house was built, and although Lawrence had said he would sort it out, he never had.
The light illuminated twenty or so boxes crammed in our section, whereas Angela’s side was almost empty. Just a pile of books – mainly medical – a holdall, and somehow Mum’s pictures were leaning against her back wall. I hadn’t been up there for so long, I could only think Lawrence must have moved them when he was trying to sort things out, and forgot to put them back.
I clambered over the boxes, and knelt down in front of the paintings. There was a stunning painting of Southwold’s brightly coloured beach huts; one of the remains of Greyfriars Priory in Dunwich, the sky intense grey, as though it might start to rain; another depicting a fish and chip shop in Aldeburgh, a queue of people waiting – and I could almost taste the chips with lashings of salt and vinegar. They were all studies of where we’d visited when I was a child. Despite never travelling far from home – I never went abroad as a child – my mother loved Suffolk.
And then I saw it: a painting of the same farmhouse – but this time four children stood outside, three girls and an older boy. A memory fluttered. I knew this house. I’d been inside it, could smell the damp, the cigarette smoke, and what was that? Bleach? I dropped the painting, a surge of fear filling my senses.
Something terrible had happened there.
I rose, suddenly breathless, and clambered my way across the loft, knocking my knee against one of the boxes and letting out a cry, almost falling.
By the hatch I saw a box marked ‘Rachel’s Childhood’. Mum had given it to me many years ago, and despite knowing I needed to get out of the loft, the temptation was too much. I lifted the lid, and began rummaging.
I picked up a naked, tangle-haired Barbie. I’d had all her accessories too – although I hadn’t wanted them that much. I’d been happiest with a football or a cricket bat, but a friend had a Barbie so I’d asked for one too. I continued to rummage through the fluffy toys that had once lined my bed, and found a game of Monopoly. I smiled at a memory of Mum and I playing. She’d joked that she’d wanted to buy Whitechapel and Old Kent Road to do them up, but I’d bought Mayfair and Park Lane, putting paid to her renovating ideas.
‘Mr Snookum?’ I whispered, nearing the bottom, and spotting his soft body. I lifted the toy rabbit out, and adjusted his waistcoat, before placing him against my nose, and breathing deeply.
And then it hit me.
Mum had him when I last visited. She’d tucked him under her duvet. How the hell had he got back into my loft?
I put him back in the box and snapped the lid shut, before climbing down the metal steps, my heart thudding.
Once downstairs, I put on my thick socks and boots and grabbed my parka, shoving the painting that had arrived earlier into my pocket.
I scooped up my car keys from the plate near the door. I knew I had to visit Mum.
July 1987
Laura dangled her feet in the lake, the hot sun stroking her neck. The house her father built stood behind her as though determined to cast its shadow over her.
But it was a beautiful day, and the sun’s rays danced on the water like shimmering diamonds. Anglers on the banks in the far distance looked like tiny dolls set up by a child. A sailboat glided across the lake, carried by the breeze.
Laura nibbled on a blade of grass, as she gazed through her sunglasses, her corduroy maternity dungarees tight across her stomach.
The jerking movements of her unborn child brought her out of her trance. She touched her stomach, but instead of how she’d hoped she might feel by now – amazed and bewildered by the miracle growing inside her – it was as though she was carrying an alien. An alien that reminded her daily that Jude let her down.
Seven months she’d carried the little stranger, and now she’d stopped hoping Jude would call. She’d accepted he never would, and any love she’d first felt for their unborn child had been replaced with fear. Thoughts of moving away, starting a new life, were a distant memory. She hadn’t got the strength to move on – not right now. Perhaps she should have told her GP she dreaded the birth of her child. But how do you explain something so awful? How do you say those words?
She clung to the rapidly fading glimmer of hope that maybe, when she held her child in her arms, her motherly instincts would kick in. Burst through and outweigh anything she’d ever felt for Jude. Maybe their baby would become the love of her life, and together they would start a new life somewhere else.
Twigs snapped behind her. She turned, but there was nothing to see. She knew it was Dillon. She’d seen him several times over the past few months, when they would drink lemonade and talk. She had learnt not to ask too many questions about his home life because each time she had, he’d clouded over and clammed up.
He was an imaginative, animated boy, lighting up as he described the monster in the lake, and the werewolves in the woods – giving Laura’s life a much-needed magical boost. He’d been flattering too – telling her he could talk to her more easily than he could to anyone else. And he’d loved her paintings.
Laura had enjoyed painting since childhood, and despite dropping out of university, she’d loved studying art. And now painting had become her go-to – her escapism from her grief and isolation.
‘They’re fecking brilliant,’ he’d said, scanning her walls. (They’d taken ages to put up – a rebellious act against her parents.) ‘Maybe you could paint one of me and me sisters?’
‘One