Jubilee (23 page)

The woman – Evie, her mother – was holding her by the shoulders, eyes boring into her face as though the secrets of the missing years were written on it. Then she removed a hand and
put a finger on Jessamy’s cheek, as though to reassure herself that what she saw was flesh and blood.

‘Jessamy!’ It came out like a scream, as though seeing her again was painful. Jessamy grabbed at her as she started to shake. ‘Kitchen,’ her mother mumbled. ‘Need
to sit down.’ Jessamy led her into the back of the house, a reversal of all those times she’d fallen off her pony as a child or hurt herself playing a game with Rachel, and her mother
had brought her into the kitchen to patch her up. The kitchen. Scrubbed oak table. Ancient cream-coloured range. The dresser with the Coronation mugs arranged on it. Still there, all of it.

Evie seemed to recover her strength and staggered towards a chair. Jessamy stood over her. Evie’s eyes were still like two lasers probing Jessamy’s soul. ‘I’m so
sorry!’ Jessamy cried. ‘I’d have come back years ago but I thought you were dead.’

‘Dead? Me?’ Her mother’s face had already blanched at the sight of Jessamy but now it seemed to take on a shade even paler than white, as though all the blood had seeped out of
her, as though she was becoming a ghost. Perhaps Evie was really a ghost after all, perhaps all this was something Jessamy’s imagination was weaving out of old memories and hopes. ‘Why?
Why did you think I was dead? Who told you that?’

Jessamy put a hand to her throat, trying to let out the words. She flopped on a chair and let out a wild cry, like an animal trapped and desperate. The black dog, who’d followed them in,
whimpered and ran to Evie, placing his head on her lap and giving half-wags of his tail, trying to steady his mistress.

‘Every day,’ Evie whispered. ‘Every day I missed you. First thing in the morning and last thing at night. And during the day, too. If I saw someone you’d been at school
with my heart would give a jolt. Whenever I passed your bedroom door. Every time Rachel came to stay, I’d half expect her to run in and say she’d found you somewhere out on the farm, it
had just been a joke, one of your pranks, and you were coming inside now.’ She paused, as though letting herself recover from what she was recalling. ‘Every time the telephone rang I
thought it might be the police saying they found you. We came back from the Jubilee party and there in the field was the new chestnut pony I’d bought for you. A surprise. Standing there, with
his head over the gate, waiting for you. And you never came back.’ She was half sobbing, half shouting now.

‘Did you look for me?’ Jessamy flushed. She’d never intended to let that one out, that nasty little suspicion that her mother hadn’t tried hard enough to find her. That
she hadn’t been missed. That Rachel had filled the gap. For God’s sake, she was an adult, a mother herself. Grow up, Jess.

‘I gave TV and radio interviews. I put out ads in the press. And in France and Holland too. Every night the dog and I would go out with a . . .’

With a long stick, Jessamy guessed. To poke around for a child’s body in a ditch.

‘Every time the police told me they’d found a child’s body my heart stopped. Then, when they said it wasn’t you, I would – ’ she swallowed –
‘I’d feel a wild joy. Then I’d think of the child’s poor parents. And I’d understand that I’d have to go on living with it, every day, every week, every
month.’ Her voice was rising. ‘Stretching on ahead of me, for the rest of my life. Sometimes I prayed that I could die and not have to feel it every day. Charlie used to send Rachel to
me. I think he did it because he knew I wouldn’t kill myself if the child was here. Oh God, Jessamy.’

Her hand was stealing across the wooden table now, in search of Jessamy’s. They held one another in a grip so tight white marks formed on their hands. Her mother’s hands showed the
wrinkles and spots exposure to all kinds of weather had caused. But they felt delicate, too. ‘I used to go to the graveyard and stand by your father’s grave and tell him how sorry I was
that I hadn’t taken proper care of you. I always thought that you wouldn’t have vanished if he’d still be alive.’

‘You did take care of me.’ And now Jessamy left her chair. She collapsed on the floor in front of her mother and buried her head in Evie’s soft wool jumper. The dog sprang out
of the way, continuing to whine. And for all her slenderness Evie’s embrace was as fierce and strong as it had been when Jessamy’s father had died and her mother had hugged her after
the funeral, telling her, wordlessly, that she would be all right.

‘Who?’ Evie said. ‘Who took you, my darling? Who did this to us?’

Jessamy said nothing but raised her eyes so she could look at her mother.

‘I have to know!’ Evie’s eyes were shining but her face was grey. Perspiration beaded her forehead and Jessamy could hear her breath, quick and shallow. ‘For decades
I’ve lived this moment, I’ve planned how it would be and it was always perfect. But it feels . . .’

‘What’s wrong, Mum?’

‘I feel so strange.’ She put a hand to her upper chest. Jessamy moved back, still watching her all the time. ‘As if I’m breaking up inside. I need to know what happened,
Jessamy.’

Jessamy sprang up. ‘You don’t look very good.’ She rummaged through cupboards looking for glasses and pulled out a tumbler and filled it with water. ‘Here.’

‘Tell . . . me . . .’ her mother panted. ‘Who . . .?’

‘Just drink this first. You’ve had a shock. Take some breaths. When you’re feeling better I’ll tell you everything.’

Her fault. She’d done exactly what she’d told herself not to do: turned up unannounced. ‘How could I have been so stupid?’ she muttered. ‘I should have written to
you first. I’m just so bad with writing things. And I hate the phone.’

‘Not stupid,’ her mother gasped. She made a movement for the glass, missed it and slumped forward in the chair. ‘My chest . . . Can’t breathe . . .’

‘Mum!’

‘My heart . . .’

Jessamy ran towards the phone. How the hell did you dial for an ambulance in England? Was it still
999?

‘Don’t . . . leave me . . . again.’

‘I’ll never leave you again.’

‘Who . . .?’ her mother was still trying to ask the questions that needed asking. ‘Who, Jessamy . . .’

‘Which emergency service do you require?’ the voice on the telephone asked.

Rachel

2003

‘But she had already lost consciousness before I could tell her,’ Jessamy said. ‘The ambulance arrived and I went with her. They asked if I lived with her and
I just said no, without thinking. I just couldn’t tell them who I was, I felt too . . .’

I could imagine her terror and confusion.

‘When we got to the hospital I sat outside while they tried to revive her. They asked me if they should ring anyone and I said you. I didn’t know your number so I went through
Evie’s mobile – I’d thought to take it with me – and gave them yours. Then they came out of the room one last time and I knew it was because . . .’ She dropped her
head. ‘Because she was dead. My fault. I killed her. Should have written first.’

The shock. The terrible and wonderful shock. Evie was a strong, fit woman, but years of suffering the loss of her child must have weakened her. And then that child had reappeared, without
warning. Dreams come true can be deadly.

‘And when she died I just . . . panicked. I went and hid in the ladies. I’d sprung my surprise visit on her after all those years and she’d had this attack.’ She put a
hand to her mouth then continued. ‘It felt like my worst nightmare, only even more terrible. And I’d imagined quite a few appalling scenarios, I can tell you. They took her into a side
room and I stole in to see her. Nobody noticed me, there’d been a big pile-up on the
M4
and they were bringing in lots of casualties. I kissed her and took out my
brush to do her hair.’

‘You put her scarf back round her neck, just as she liked it.’

‘Yes.’ Jessamy swallowed. ‘I’d always remembered how particular she was. Then I said goodbye and left the hospital. I must have wandered around in the car park for about
an hour. I don’t remember much about it at all.’

‘You were in shock.’

‘Must have been. After a while I found myself sitting outside A&E. I went inside and rang for a taxi to take me back to the B&B. I think I felt . . .’ She seemed to struggle
for the right words. ‘That if I went away quietly I might just wake up and find it had all been a bad dream, I’d never seen her, never made her heart give up.’

‘And you didn’t want to speak to me yourself?’

She bowed her head. ‘I was just beside myself. Didn’t know what I was doing. But I couldn’t face ringing you and telling you I’d killed her. What would you have said to
me then?’

‘You weren’t to know she’d respond like this.’

‘I was terrified by then that you’d see me. I went back to the B&B and hid out for the next two days, told them I had a bug.’ She drew a breath.

‘And then I wondered exactly what good telling you I was here would achieve. I assumed that Mum would have left you the house so it just seemed best to fade back to Australia and out of
your way. Cowardly, I know. But then – ’ she took a breath – ‘I went to buy a few bits in the shop in the next village for the flight home and heard them talking about
Mum’s funeral. My mother was being buried in Craven churchyard. I had to be there at the service. He wasn’t going to take that from me, too. I started feeling bolder and came back here.
I was just in the garden then. And the farmyard. And then I came back again this afternoon.’

‘Who’s the “he”, Jess?’ I asked. ‘Who took you? You still haven’t said.’

She looked at me as though I was mad. ‘Robert Winter, of course.’

Jessamy

A few days before the Silver Jubilee party, 1977

‘I haven’t been back here since I left in 1945, Jessamy,’ Robert said.

‘So why are you back now?’

He looked past her, down the hill towards the village. ‘It’s the Jubilee coming up. It’s reminded me of home, of the way things are done here: the party, the bunting, the cakes
and mugs.’ For a moment he looked younger than he had done at first, as though he was a boy reliving it all. ‘I missed it all so much all the time I was away. But you won’t tell
your mother I’m here, will you?’ His eyes held hers, refusing to let her doubt the seriousness of what he said. They were sitting with Martha in a hollow on the hillside very early in
the morning, sheltered from the wind and from anyone who might wish them ill.

‘Why not?’

A film seemed to pass over Robert’s eyes. ‘It’s just better for her not to know.’

She wanted to ask why this was but she didn’t. He was her Uncle Robert, after all. She’d seen the photographs of him. Mum had always told her that it had been Uncle Robert
who’d brought her and her brother to live on the farm.

‘Mum thinks you died in the barn when it burned down.’

‘It wasn’t me.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Never mind that now,’ said Martha.

Jessamy decided to ignore the old woman. ‘Mum gets really sad every time she talks about you, Uncle Robert. She told me how you chose her and Uncle Charlie to come and live on the
farm.’

A snort from Martha.

‘You really care about your mother, don’t you?’ His eyes were soft.

She nodded.

‘Even if she’s angry with you sometimes?’

‘She doesn’t get that angry.’

‘Angry enough.’ Martha stared at the bruise on Jessamy’s eye. ‘You need to know what’s been going on here,’ she told Robert. ‘I mentioned the
cows—’

‘You should get back now, Jessamy.’ Robert spoke gently. ‘I’ll see you again soon. I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time. I’ve heard a lot about
you.’ He and Martha exchanged another glance.

She rose. ‘I’m glad I’ve met you at last,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen your photos in the house. It wasn’t you they found in the barn when it burned down, so
who was it?’

He started to answer but Martha cut through. ‘We don’t know, child. Might have been that Eyetie – Italian.’

‘Carlo.’ Jessamy remembered the name. ‘Mum liked him too. She used to give him apples.’

Martha’s face grew more set.

‘I’m glad I’ve seen you, too, Noi.’ Robert stood and placed his arms around her shoulders.

She wanted to ask him why he called her that but Martha got up as well. ‘I’ll walk part of the way with you, Jess.’ They left Robert crouching in the hollow on the hillside and
descended the steep track back to the farm.

‘Robert Winter is a good man.’ Martha’s voice shook slightly. ‘He is your father’s brother and your father would have wanted you to do as Robert said.’

‘What does he want me to do?’

‘You’ll find out.’ Martha stopped. ‘Do as he tells you, Jess. And be ready. Trust me. I always make things nice for you, don’t I?’

She nodded.

‘Remember our little trip to Oxford?’ They’d gone for the afternoon, had tea. Martha had taken her to a photographer’s and had her portrait taken for a surprise. Jessamy
hadn’t seen the photo yet. Perhaps it was to be a present for Evie because Martha had told her not to tell her mother. Seemed unlikely though.

‘Why don’t you like my mother?’ The question popped out of her mouth.

Martha’s mouth opened and closed. ‘I never said I didn’t like her,’ she said at last. ‘But there are some things that aren’t right.’ She glanced at
Jessamy. ‘Sometimes you have to be born in a place to really belong, Jess. To know how to deal with the beasts: the sheep and the cows and their ailments. You need to be born to
it.’

‘Like me.’

‘Like you.’ Martha put out a hand and gave her a gentle push. ‘You hurry along now before she wonders where you’ve been.’

Be ready. The moment came when she wasn’t expecting it. At the Jubilee party on the green. Martha came to stand beside her as she admired the mugs in their cardboard box
again. ‘Where’s your mother and Rachel?’

‘Outside getting orange squash for Rachel, I think. Why?’