Beneath the Surface (23 page)

The day after school finished Kathryn drove us to my grandparents’ house in Yorkshire, where we would spend the next six months. Eleanor called my headmaster to say I wouldn’t be returning until the spring as she was taking me on a trip to Africa, where I would be home schooled. He of course knew who my grandfather was, so bought the whole story and wished us well, saying he looked forward to hearing all about it when I returned. Grandpa had lived in Africa for seven years. It gave him plenty of opportunity to drill into me everything I needed to know, on Eleanor’s command.

In reality I spent the next four months in their house going out of my mind with boredom. Eleanor was constantly buzzing around, questioning my mother and me as if we were in an interview, making sure we got our stories straight until she was satisfied neither of us was going to say or do something stupid at the last minute.

My mother swung like a pendulum. One minute she was relaxed with Eleanor in charge and would come back from the shops laden with bags full of baby toiletries, white babygros and vests, sleepsuits, little bits for a nursery and books on parenting as if she were a first-time mother. Sometimes she almost whipped herself into a frenzy of excitement and I could never work out if she was truly happy or going completely mad. But at other times she locked herself in her bedroom, only emerging for dinner when she would barely speak to anyone, her face expressionless and unreadable.

I, on the other hand, kept out of everyone’s way as much as possible. Every few weeks I would meet with Dr Edgar Simmonds, who knew the depth of our lie. But apart from that, I spent hours drawing pictures and sketches, just to keep my mind occupied. I did it because it made me feel closer to my daddy, and right then more than ever I needed someone who was on my side.

As my belly grew bigger I started to feel like I wasn’t alone so much. Every time I felt a flutter or a kick, and eventually my baby turning its whole body inside of me, I grew to love the little person I carried within me. It was all mine, my precious baby, and I had an overwhelming need not to let it go. Some nights I lay awake imagining what I could do to escape, how we could run away and live together on an island far away so no one would find us, but always I landed back in reality with a deafening thud. I knew I had given up any options a long time ago.

My mother’s due date came and went. Eleven days later she went into labour and on December 15th the first of the ‘twins’ was born. Although not due for another month, in the early hours of New Year’s Eve I felt the first pulling pains of what I guessed were contractions. I screamed out in terror: the pain had taken me by surprise, and I didn’t like what was happening to my body. Eleanor came into my room, picked up my bag and ushered me into the car. I could see my mother watching me from her bedroom window, holding her own baby close to her chest as we drove into the night to the hospital.

The hours passed and the contractions grew stronger. Dr Simmonds arrived, along with a midwife called Mae, who Eleanor had paid for. Mae told me I was doing well and that my baby would soon be born. I screamed at her to get it out of me, clutching her tightly in fear because I didn’t want her to go. She was the only person I wanted to get me through it, I thought, because she had kind eyes. I wanted Edgar nowhere near me.

Eleanor remained in the hospital, only occasionally coming into the room to see how I was doing. Every time she appeared, I looked away – I couldn’t bear to see her watching me in so much pain. Right then I was blaming her for making me go through with it.

By evening I was desperate for pain relief, begging Mae to help me. I asked her to give me anything that would take away the agony but she told me there wasn’t time: my baby was on its way.

I screamed and cursed and pushed until I heard her exclaim that she could see a head. And at thirty-five minutes past midnight on New Year’s Day my daughter was born.

They handed her to me and I took her in my arms. She was tiny and slippery and her eyes were scrunched tight, making her nose wrinkle up. Her head was covered in soft, dark hair. I wrapped my sheet over her and pressed her naked body against my own, and as my tears fell onto her little face I didn’t take my eyes away from hers: my daughter. I was holding the most precious thing in the world and I had a burning need to look after her for ever.

‘The first baby girl of the New Year!’ a nurse exclaimed, coming into the room. ‘We’ll have to take a special photograph for our wall.’

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ Eleanor said sharply, following her in.

My grandmother leaned over to look at my baby and nodded. I didn’t look up at her; I didn’t say anything to her. I just wanted Eleanor to get out of the room and leave me alone with my daughter again. Once she had left, Mae came back over and sat next to me, rubbing my arm. ‘Is everything all right, Abigail?’ she asked. ‘Are you OK?’

I nodded, tears still spilling from my eyes as I held my little girl against my chest and nuzzled into her head. I would have breathed her in if I could.

‘She’s perfect,’ I whispered.

‘She is,’ Mae smiled. ‘But here,’ she took hold of my arm and loosened my grip, ‘don’t squeeze her too tightly.’

I looked down at the black downy hair covering my daughter’s head; her tiny chubby fingers gripping my thumb so tightly. The nappy Mae was putting on her that was too big for her. I studied every inch of her little body and I could still describe it to you perfectly.

I didn’t know how I was ever going to let my little girl go, yet I knew I had no choice. I should have run out of the hospital that day like I’d wanted to, but I didn’t – I was too scared I might lose her completely.

‘What are you calling her?’ Mae asked.

‘Hannah,’ I replied.

‘What a pretty name.’

‘I read in a baby book it means “God has favoured me”,’ I said. ‘I like that. I want her to always be looked after.’ And as I held Hannah close against my chest, I knew that was all I wanted for my baby girl – for her to feel safe and happy and loved. Looked after like I never was.

*****

There was no ceremonious handing over of my baby because of course I still lived with her new mother. On January 31st, 1999, Kathryn and I and the two girls, Hannah and Lauren, went back home. It was a clear-cut plan. I did as I was told and as soon as I got back to London, I returned to school, where I got to live the life of a teenager again.

Only no one accounted for how I would feel. Every night I spent hours staring at the babies. Once they were safely asleep in their cots, I crept into their room and lay my hand on Hannah’s tiny tummy so I could feel the comforting movements of her breathing. Then I would do the same with Lauren, my little half-sister, because I didn’t like the thought of her missing out just because she wasn’t my own.

They were both beautiful in their very different ways. Hannah’s hair was getting lighter but was still a dark brown, and she had chubby cheeks that reminded me of a hamster. She was slightly bigger than Lauren, with podgy little arms and legs. Lauren’s fair, downy hair made her look almost bald. People of course accepted they were twins because that is what they were told. Why would they believe any different? But when I looked at them I couldn’t imagine how anyone could be so gullible. They barely looked like sisters, which of course they weren’t: Lauren was Hannah’s aunt. The thought messed with my head so much whenever I watched them sleep soundly together in their cots that I dreaded to think how it might affect them if they were to ever know the truth.

I don’t know if Kathryn was ever haunted by such thoughts. It won’t come as a surprise to know that we never discussed it, but I was sure she wasn’t always handling it as well as she tried to make out.

‘Lauren goes on the right,’ my mother shrieked at me one day when I had settled them down to sleep. ‘What are you doing?’

‘It’s not as if you need to tell them apart!’ I snapped.

I had no idea why she did those little things but I wondered if she was trying to instill some ‘twin-ness’ into them. Making up for them not sharing a womb.

Hannah looked at her mum in disbelief. She hadn’t mentioned her dad’s name since reading the article about him, and until that morning Kathryn had clammed up whenever his name was mentioned. Now all of a sudden her mum seemed not only willing to tell them about him, but she was adamant they must hear it right then.

Kathryn was already dressed when she appeared in the kitchen, wearing a cream cashmere cardigan over a sundress. She had obviously made an effort, and she almost passed it off until Hannah noticed the buttons had been fastened all wrong, and where one shoe was pink, the other was red. About to point these out, Hannah stopped when her mum held up her hand to speak. And suddenly she was more than happy to tell them about their dad. In fact she insisted they know all about the kind of man Peter Webb really was.

Peter. His face flashed up in Hannah’s mind as Kathryn drew her own ugly portrait of him. ‘I fell in love with his charm,’ she said. ‘He had everything I was looking for in a man: ambition, intelligence, looks. Then I fell pregnant and everything changed. He told me he’d never wanted children, that he wasn’t a family man. And after you were born, true to his word, he wanted nothing to do with you. He started to …’ She stopped and waited for Hannah and Lauren to nod their encouragement. ‘He became a bit violent, never with you, just me. And so I finally told him he had to go. I was scared he might hurt you too. And that’s why I don’t want you looking for him. I don’t want you having anything to do with him. You understand that, don’t you? You mustn’t go near the man. You can’t trust him.’

Hannah listened intently, and along with Lauren she nodded that no, of course they wouldn’t go near him, not if that was the type of man he was. But there was something odd about the earnest look in her mum’s eyes imploring them to believe her. Hannah couldn’t help but feel there was something amiss.

Once Kathryn was satisfied with their assurance that they wouldn’t ask about him again and would never go looking for him, she left the house.

She was meeting Morrie, or so she said.

*****

Lauren looked ashen. Hannah could imagine what her sister must be thinking.

‘He sounds like a monster,’ Lauren said.

She could tell Lauren was fighting back tears because her back was arched rigid and her fingernails were digging into her palms, making little white semi-circles in the flesh. It was something she had always done since they were young, a distraction to stop herself from crying.

‘Yes, well,’ Hannah said eventually, ‘I certainly wasn’t expecting that.’

Lauren shook her head. ‘Can you believe what Mum’s been through? It must have been awful. I just don’t understand how someone doesn’t want to know his own daughters, and then to be so violent too. My God, Hannah, it doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘No.’

‘It makes my skin crawl to think someone like that is our father. Doesn’t it you?’

Hannah nodded. ‘Where are you going?’ she asked as Lauren got up and picked her bag off the floor.

‘I need to do something, something normal. Sophie’s going to the shopping centre today and I’m going to go with her. I can’t sit here thinking about him right now. Come too.’

But Hannah shook her head. ‘No, you go. I don’t fancy it.’

Lauren didn’t need telling twice. She was out of the door in minutes, leaving Hannah to mull over what she hadn’t wanted to say, that there was definitely something not right about her mum’s story. The way she so readily proffered information, a story so carefully structured that it left Hannah wondering what was really going on. She was surprised when her mum had started talking the moment they appeared in the kitchen, and had watched her closely as the facts unfurled. It felt more like Kathryn was reading a script but without the expression of a talented actress: her tone flat, her speech relentless until she’d finished what she wanted to say. Even when Lauren asked a question, she’d held up a hand to stop her.

And the truth was, Hannah didn’t believe a single word she had said.

*****

On her insistence the girls forget all about their father, Hannah had of course agreed just to get her out of the house. As she had listened to her mum and watched her nervous gestures it reminded her of something Lauren had told her a week earlier when she had found Kathryn in a state, frantic over some envelope she had obviously not wanted anyone to see. Hannah had thought nothing of it at the time. Her mum’s odd behaviour was part of everyday life but now she wondered if there was more to it. And as she had the house to herself she was going to find whatever it was she was hiding.

Hannah started searching in Kathryn’s bedroom, pulling out drawers from the chest, carefully rifling through make-up, underwear, balls of socks and then putting everything back in its place. Inside the wardrobe she removed shoes and bags and opened shoeboxes. She then ran her hand along the top but found nothing. Pulling up the crocheted throw, she peered under the bed, moving a suitcase to the side of the otherwise empty space. Pausing briefly, her eyes took in the room and settled on the bedside table.

Something was jamming the drawer and she needed to tuck her hand inside and push it down to release it. Once open, she stared at the number of things stuffed inside, so unlike every other organised drawer in the house. She started thumbing though receipts, photos, a notepad and passports until right at the bottom she noticed a brown envelope.

Hannah prised it out. ‘Private and confidential’ was written across the top in block capitals, underlined twice. The seal had come unstuck and a line of tape hung loosely over it, so old it had turned brown and lost its purpose. She took a deep breath and tentatively opened it, peering inside. Nothing; whatever was in it had been removed. Her heart sank. She’d been so full of anticipation that suddenly she felt like crying. About to put the envelope back into the drawer she absent-mindedly dipped her hand inside, a final sweep, and felt something tucked at the bottom. Clenching her fingers around the paper she pulled it out and unfolded it, once, twice, three times until it was laid flat across her lap: it was a page from a newspaper. She scanned both sides, looking for something that made sense, but nothing seemed relevant. So she started again, this time looking closer, reading each line, searching for anything to do with her mother.