Christmas on Primrose Hill (50 page)

She didn’t know what to do; she didn’t want to mess it up again. ‘Do you . . . do you want to come in?’

She saw her mother’s eyes slide behind her, then, and she knew her father was there. She could hear the vacuum of air in the hallway, as though a black hole had opened up behind her and threatened to suck her into it, far away from here.

‘Well, that depends on you,’ her mother said slowly, her eyes on her husband.

‘Of course we want you to come in,’ Nettie gasped, the words in a rush. ‘There’s nothing we want more, isn’t that right, Dad?’

Her father nodded, but the movement was jerky and reflexive, like a marionette’s.

‘Have you seen the ribbons? In the square? They’re for you, Mum. All for you.’

‘I know . . . I heard on the news last night. They’re beautiful . . .’ Her eyes shone at the dismay that she knew came from their private family tragedy becoming an oh-so-public news story. ‘But it’s not that simple, love.’ Her mother’s voice was small, contained, as though she’d put it in a box.

‘It is!’ Nettie cried, feeling her calm begin to crumble, sensing her mother recede. ‘Having you back is all that matters. You’re all we want. We’ve missed you so much.’

But her mother just shook her head. ‘It’s not just me, you see.’

Nettie reeled, stepping back as though the words were pushing her over. What? She had . . . another husband? Another man?

She whipped round to face her father, who still hadn’t said a word. He didn’t look like he’d taken a breath in all that time.

‘Dad?’ Nettie asked, making to move towards him, before noticing suddenly his eyeline. The angle of it. Tears rising like moons in his eyes. Understanding dawning.

She turned back again, feeling the spin of the earth slow fractionally. For there, at the bottom of the steps, behind her mother, was a little girl – thin but rosy-cheeked in a puffy hooded snowsuit. No more than three years old, she guessed.

‘This is Molly,’ her mother said, but her voice had changed again, thin to the point of translucence, weightless. ‘And I understand if . . . I understand . . .’ The emotion she had kept in check till now – the courage she had mustered to get to this doorstep – broke free like wild horses and she dropped her head. Nettie noticed her hands were balled into fists, the sinews in her neck straining like she was lifting a weight far heavier than she could bear.

‘Mummy sad?’ the little girl said in a voice as high as a piccolo, and with it, drawing from her father the sound that had been lost till now – an anguished yelp, like a dog with a pin in its paw, a man with a break in his heart.

Nettie couldn’t take her eyes off her sister, remembering the doll she’d seen in the box at the flat yesterday.

‘I know what I’ve put you through. I know what I’ve denied you, Gerry. And I’ve missed you so badly, more than you could ever know. But I didn’t know how to . . . to say it . . .’ her mother said, the words drifting into silence. Nettie and her father were unmoving as they stared at the little girl they had never once even thought to imagine.

‘When I walked out that day, I had no idea I wasn’t going to return. I just . . . had to walk. And think. I’d come back from the doctor’s and I didn’t know how to tell you I was pregnant again, not after the conversation we’d had. But then I walked so far I didn’t even know where I was or how long I’d been walking. I’d left without my bag and I realized I had no way of getting back – I couldn’t catch a bus or train or taxi. I felt so
stupid
, so
guilty
, knowing what you must be going through to come home and find me gone.’

Neither Nettie nor her father replied. It was a day neither one of them would ever be able to forget – or, possibly, forgive.

‘And yet, the next morning, my absence made it all seem somehow easier. My mind felt clearer. I knew I wanted the baby and so it seemed obvious, suddenly, what I had to do. I’d been so broken. At some level, I think I thought you’d be better off without me.’

‘How could I ever be better off without you?’ Nettie cried. ‘You’re my mother. I needed you.’

‘But Molly did too, and I didn’t think I could have you both,’ her mother said quietly. ‘You were so . . . independent, finding your place in the world. You’d got a job, found your first flat, were settling into a relationship.’ She shrugged hopelessly. ‘You’d grown up. I didn’t think you needed me anymore.’

‘You were wrong,’ Nettie whispered bitterly, feeling the tears smart at her eyes as she stared down with a stony heart at the fledgling child. She had been abandoned by her mother for
her
? She had always wanted a sibling – but not at this price.

‘I know that now. And I’m so sorry, darling.’

Molly staggered up the steps, seemingly not aware that her legs bent at the knee, and making her mother smile through her tears as she bent down to scoop her up. Nettie was surprised to realize she had laughed too.

Her mother looked back at her, the child on her hip, terror in her eyes. ‘Nettie, this is your little sister, Molly.’

Nettie blinked as the little girl looked straight at her – guileless, brimful, innocent. They had the same almond eyes.

‘Would you like to hold her? I’ve told her all about you.’

Nettie bit her lip, recoiling slightly as she checked her instinct to reach out. The silence behind her was becoming oppressive, like a choking fog seeping towards her. ‘Dad?’ she asked, half turning to him. She couldn’t abandon him after everything they’d endured together.

He came to stand behind her, his hand on the door, knuckles blanched white and an expression on his face she couldn’t read – joy marbled with grief, relief with betrayal, surprise with dismay . . .

‘Gerry?’ Her mother’s voice wavered and Nettie understood this was it. The final chance. She stood still, braced for either the silence or words that would confirm the path their lives would follow once and for all. Could her father forgive this? Could she?

She closed her eyes as she felt him step back, a rush of air gathering behind her as he stepped away from the door, retreating into the shadow of the house, and desolation barrelled through her. It was too late; he had been pushed too hard, for too long, his wife’s secret a step too far—

‘We’re just making some tea,’ he said.

There was another pause, and Nettie’s gaze tangled with her little sister’s as they waited, both of them, for their family’s fate to be decided, negotiated.

‘A good cup of tea?’ her mother asked back, a light beginning to shine in her eyes.

Nettie caught her breath as she heard the refrain that had echoed throughout her whole life – the remedy for any problem, no matter how terrible.

She watched as her father slowly smiled too. ‘Yes. We’re going to have a good cup of tea.’

Acknowledgements

A person going missing is uniquely sad. In the course of my research into the subject, I read many historic stories of people going missing that articulated the lingering despair of the families left behind who are not only left wondering where their loved ones are, but also whether they are even alive and safe. Missing People is an excellent charity that provides support to both the people who go missing and their families, and the lyrics you read in the St Martins-in-the-Field scene are taken from a song ‘I Miss You’, written especially for them by a father whose son went missing twenty-six years ago. Should you be so inclined, it’s well worth taking the time to listen to it, as it’s hauntingly beautiful and the £1 download fee benefits the charity.
www.missingpeople.org.uk/imissyou

As someone whose working day involves spending eight hours alone in a room, making up worlds in my head, the more niche machinations of big corporations are outside my immediate sphere of knowledge, so I’d like to offer big thanks to Sarah (@sesp) who volunteered her expertise from the Twittersphere – rather appropriately given the topic of this book. I had never heard of CSR before our first messages and I’m so grateful for her patience in advising me.

Also, as ever, I’d like to thank the teams both personal and professional that support me day to day in getting my books written, finessed and published into these beautiful, sparkling products: Victoria Hughes-Williams and Caroline Hogg, thank you for your insightful and incisive edits; Natasha Harding, your military-grade organizational powers; Katie James, ever-smiling and ever-optimistic on my behalf even though my life is unfailingly boring for editorial purposes; Jodie Mullish and Amy Lines, doing things that I will never understand with computers (meta-what?) but that somehow mean the most beautiful posters of my books are flagged up on walls and screens around the country; Daniel Jenkins, Stuart Dwyer and Anna Bond for securing dazzling subs that mean bookshelves (both nationally and internationally) are groaning under the weight of Karen Swan tomes; James Annal, for such a lovely cover – again; Eloise Wood and my copy-editor Laura Collins for enduring my appalling grammar; Holly Sheldrake for the alchemy that turns my word document into beautiful book-dom; and Jeremy Trevathan and Wayne Brookes for seeing the big picture. I’m so grateful to you all.

To my family – all of you – I couldn’t make you up. You’re better than fiction.