Forgive Me Not Read online

  ‘Do you still do needlework?’ she asked.

  ‘Sewing?’ A vacant look came over Gail’s face. ‘How about those pancakes? I haven’t eaten for days.’

  As Emma made the batter, Andrea walked past the kitchen window and glanced in. She didn’t catch her younger sister’s eye but concentrated instead on Gail. The lack of trust penetrated the double glazing.

  And who could blame her? thought Emma as she sat down with her mum to eat, ignoring the movement at the window as Andrea walked past again. After breakfast, while she did the washing-up, Bligh came in for a coffee. Was that to check up on her as well?

  A couple of hours later, she and Gail were sitting on the sofa. Emma was surprised Bligh hadn’t come back and told her it was time to leave. She’d glanced out of the kitchen window and spied her sister drinking out of a thermos flask. Clearly she’d taken every precaution to make sure their paths wouldn’t cross again.

  Emma fetched the photo albums from the side cabinet in the dining room. She and Gail flicked through them from way back. Gail hummed to herself just like she did in the old days. Now and then her face broke into a smile. Would she finally make the connection and recognise her younger daughter?

  They came to a photo of Andrea aged about six months. She sat in a pram, holding a rattle. Emma looked away until the page turned. She looked back to see a print of herself just a couple of months after she’d left college, with the fake blonde hair, sprayed skin and dressy clothes she liked back then – all clues that the person she used to be had no confidence.

  ‘That’s your daughter,’ she whispered, and held her breath.

  Gail tutted. ‘Caused trouble day and night, that one.’

  ‘But… I’m sure she loved you.’

  Gail turned the page without replying.

  Emma collapsed back into the sofa and contemplated this uncomfortable return – the surveillance from Bligh and Andrea; the lack of recognition from Mum. Instantly her mind recalled the whoosh sensation she used to get from the first sip. How, with just one mouthful, the world became an easier place and seemed to have a space for her that was the perfect fit.

  She stood up and paced the room, ending up by the front window. As she stared out at the pink foxgloves, Gail appeared by her side.

  ‘I’m going for a walk,’ she announced. ‘In the village. It’s Friday. That means fish for lunch at the Badger Inn.’

  ‘No! I mean…’ Emma softened her tone. ‘I can make you a lovely lunch here. I don’t think Andrea would want—’

  ‘My coat… I’ll just get my coat…’

  Emma stood, unable to move for a moment. What should she do? Andrea wouldn’t want her to take her mum out, of that she was sure. And there was no way she could face the pub’s landlords, Polly and Alan. Not yet, not after she’d heard… She wasn’t ready to think about it. Soon, but not today.

  Gail gazed expectantly, like a child waiting to open Christmas presents.

  How could she distract her? Keep her doing rather than just being? How had Andrea managed these last months? Emma had been here only a matter of hours and could already see how challenging Mum could be.

  She went to the patio doors at the back of the dining room and looked for Andrea. She dashed along to the shop, but Bligh had disappeared as well. When she got back, Gail had her winter coat half on. Emma tried to get it off, but Gail glared and pulled away. Emma considered shouting for help, but she didn’t want to upset her mum.

  ‘Okay,’ she said reluctantly. Perhaps the fresh air would do them both good. She found a pad of paper in the kitchen and penned a note. She wrote down her mobile number, where they were going and at what time, and really hoped that would be enough.

  She gazed at Gail for a moment, mourning the loss of her mum, her friend, the vegetarian, the needlework whizz, the animal carer. Gail had meant so many things to so many people. The dementia had reduced her to a singular being.

  She managed to persuade Gail to wear her light summer jacket. There were some old Post-it notes screwed up in the pocket saying things like Take tablets at ten. When had she stopped writing them?

  They walked along the dusty drive. Emma turned around, hoping to see Andrea or Bligh, but the farm looked deserted. They turned right and went down Broadgrass Hill. Emma pointed out colourful flowers. Gail stopped to pet a cat. When she stood up, her hand rested on Emma’s. They ended up linking arms for the rest of their journey. Emma’s chest felt lighter. Perhaps just a small part of Mum was in there somewhere.

  They passed the butcher’s. Emma didn’t like to look in. Across the road, outside the supermarket, she spotted the homeless woman again, drinking out of a can. Familiar faces passed, smiling at Gail, not sure how to react to Emma. She looked at her mobile phone several times, to see if Andrea or Bligh had left a message. It was great that they’d let her spend time with Mum – she didn’t want this walk to ruin it.

  By the time they reached the Badger Inn, it had just turned midday.

  ‘How about a lovely toasted sandwich in the teashop by the church?’ said Emma brightly.

  ‘Fish and chips,’ said Gail.

  A woman with a baby in a pram walked past. All Emma could hear for those seconds was the gurgle as the child woke up. When she focused again, Gail was already through the pub door. Emma closed her eyes for a second. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. There was no going back now. This was the encounter she’d dreaded for months, meeting Polly and Alan. Pulse racing, she followed her mum in.

  They were the first customers. Emma never used to like this pub much, with its old-school feel – the ping-pong table in the corner, not far from the darts board. She’d found the mahogany beams and magnolia walls unglamorous and wished for piped dance music instead of the jukebox. Yet now she gazed around and appreciated its charm. Like the small alcove in the corner, and the collection of badger ornaments on shelves along the tops of the walls.

  Polly waved at Gail, and Emma took a sharp intake of breath. She noted the black shadows under the landlady’s eyes, and how she had lost her curves. She still wore the boldest shades in make-up and clothes, as if she’d only ever discovered primary colours. She turned to Emma. ‘So, the rumours were true. I meant to ring Andrea to find out if she was okay.’ Polly crossed her arms, creasing the fifties-style swing dress. ‘Alan!’

  A distinguished-looking man with greying sideburns appeared around the side of the bar. His conservative clothes made him look like the black-and-white negative of Polly’s bright lovebird outfit.

  ‘Hello, Gail,’ he said pleasantly. His gaze fell on Emma. ‘You’ve got some nerve.’

  Emma’s knees felt unsteady as she thought back to rehab and what a friend there who’d visited Healdbury had revealed about Alan and Polly. It had caused her sleepless nights ever since.

  ‘I… Gail insisted. We just want a quiet drink. Plus fish and chips for two. Please.’

  Polly came around the bar, smiled at Gail and led her gently over to a table in the corner. She passed her a beer mat to play with. Then she whispered something in Alan’s ear. He squeezed her shoulder before she headed out the back.

  ‘You want a drink?’ he said.

  ‘Two… two Cokes, I mean,’ she said, voice shaking a little. ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Have you forgotten that you’re barred?’

  Emma walked up to him. ‘No, I haven’t, but look, Alan, I don’t want a fuss. I’m really sorry… for everything.’

  He snorted. ‘I bet you can’t remember half of the things you did – especially during the week before that last Christmas. How angry your actions made our customers. How it upset Bligh.’

  ‘I can’t undo the past, but—’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Alan. ‘So bugger off.’

  ‘But I can’t leave Mum here on her own.’

  Alan folded his arms. ‘She’ll be safer with us.’ He proceeded to list Emma’s many misadventures from the past – how she broke the toilet, threw up against the wall; how she hit on customers a
nd once tried to do a striptease on a table. Like a pupil sent to the head teacher’s office, she stood, ears burning, wishing some magical spaceship could beam her and Mum up and teleport them to somewhere more friendly.

  The door creaked open behind her. Emma swung around to see Andrea and Bligh.

  ‘What the hell are you up to?’ said Andrea, face perspiring, sleeves rolled up.

  ‘I just brought Mum out for lunch.’

  ‘What was I supposed to think, coming into an empty house? I was frantic until Polly rang.’ Andrea hurried over to Gail, scanning her as if she expected her to have come to harm.

  ‘But I couldn’t find you or Bligh.’

  ‘One of the goats managed to get out again. We found him by the pond,’ said Bligh.

  ‘I left a note on the kitchen table.’

  ‘Really?’ He raised both eyebrows, then he, Andrea and Alan all exchanged looks.

  ‘You think I’m lying?’ said Emma.

  ‘Would that be so out of character?’ said Andrea.

  Emma held onto the back of a nearby chair. What was the point in arguing? They’d all given her plenty of chances before. Chances she’d scorned. It wasn’t enough to look clear-skinned and walk straight.

  ‘Sorry. You must have been very worried.’ She went over to Gail and knelt down. ‘It’s been lovely to see you,’ she murmured. The beer mat fell to the floor. She picked it up and handed it back, then, using the table to steady herself, pushed herself up. She caught Andrea’s eye. ‘Thank you for letting me have breakfast with Mum. I’ll head up to Foxglove Farm and collect my things. By the time you get back I’ll be gone. I’ll forward you my address when I get a new place to live, just in case… Sorry for the disruption.’

  She took one last glance at Mum and almost knocked a chair over as she left.

  15 months before going back

  Emma and Joe stood yawning in the March sun. He’d actually come back last night, and they’d scraped together enough money for burgers and doughnuts. It had almost been like old times as they’d huddled together to keep warm, telling jokes and singing songs. He’d even kissed her goodnight, albeit only on the cheek.

  ‘Are you coming back tonight?’ Emma asked, squinting against the bright rays that highlighted the blonde streaks in Joe’s spiky hair. ‘Tomorrow’s Mother’s Day, so people will probably reach into their pockets more than usual.’ Like at Christmas, people’s generosity was directly proportional to the number of bags they carried.

  ‘Dunno. Don’t depend on it.’ A teenager skated past and almost hit Emma’s legs. ‘Oi!’ shouted Joe and pulled her to one side. He squeezed her arm. ‘Stay safe, Ems.’

  ‘I could come with you?’ she said, hating the neediness in her voice. She didn’t understand. Why was he creating distance between them?

  ‘Look… you know I think the world of you, but give this up.’ He sighed. ‘You and me… it’ll never work out. You know why.’

  ‘But I’ve been working on this plan – researching in the library…’ Her stomach tingled. She’d held onto her idea as if she were planning a surprise party. Now it was time for the big reveal. ‘Forget London. We could work abroad. Get away from all this.’

  ‘Abroad? Are you crazy?’

  ‘Yes. I mean no.’ She gave a nervous giggle. ‘Just think about it, Joe, we could easily do fruit-picking. With my experience in farming—’

  ‘I haven’t even got a passport. And where would we find the money for the flights?’

  ‘I… I’ve still got to work out the details.’

  ‘The basics, more like.’

  ‘We could work it out together.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But…’

  He turned to go.

  Cheeks flushed, she rummaged in her rucksack. ‘Here. Take these. The soup run was handing them out last week.’ She passed him a jar of vitamin tablets.

  His face relaxed and he slipped the jar into his bag. ‘Right. I’m off. See ya around.’

  Vision blurry, Emma headed to the shops. She passed a travel agency and scrutinised the deals in the window. Spain. Provence. Tuscany. If only she and Joe could start life over again. Mothercare caught her attention next, and she peered through the glass at bibs and prams. One day she’d love to have kids. She’d try to be the best mum ever. Perhaps she’d have girls who got on as well as she and Andrea had. But not for a few years. She needed to sort herself out first. Until then, whatever Joe said, she just knew they were each other’s answer.

  Eventually she pitched up outside a gift shop, away from the centre. Children of all ages stopped off to buy cards, giving her their change on the way out. Emma sat cross-legged in front of an empty Starbucks cup, trying not to think about Joe. Just for a few seconds that donated coffee had made her feel almost normal – whatever normal was.

  Was it a house with a white picket fence? A mortgage and business lunches out? During her more aware moments, she observed passers-by going about their daily business. Couples hand in hand. X Factor wannabe buskers. Browbeaten parents proudly watching toddlers toddle. Football fans giving their all to the latest chant. Young executives with their polished shoes and space-age phones.

  She’d concluded that all being normal meant was being happy with yourself. Quite the street philosopher she’d become, like a Buddha who favoured company instead of reclusiveness.

  She yawned and wished for another caffeine hit to take her mind off the physical niggles in her life, like continual acid reflux, toothache, cuts and bruises from falls, and that cough during the winter.

  Joe was a coffee lover, latte being his absolute favourite. He came from London and didn’t even know that goats produced milk. Painful as it was to talk about Foxglove Farm, she’d do so as Joe sat like one of the small children she’d enjoyed babysitting as a teenager, mesmerised by her anecdotes. Like the time Gail rescued two sheep from the same farm, one year apart. Clearly they remembered each other and skipped like lambs when they first met up. Andrea preferred plants, growing vegetables and harvesting fruit, but those animals’ reunion brought tears even to her eyes. Joe always said he could tell Emma would have made an excellent vet, even though she’d failed her A level biology twice.

  For his part, Joe talked about London life. The clubs he’d grown up in with an older brother who had a lot of problems. His mum travelled the world as a lecturer whilst his surgeon Dad worked all hours repairing hearts. Neither realised anything was amiss until Joe’s brother died from an accidental overdose. Initially they blamed Joe for not telling them. Then they’d been surprised when guilt sent him down the same avenue. A bigger contrast to Emma’s rural life there couldn’t have been. Yet she and Joe had clicked together like a seat belt and buckle.

  The morning passed within hues of cider, everything beige and warm, as if the surroundings had been passed through the sunniest Instagram filter. So Joe wanted details for their new life abroad? Then Emma would work them out. The Starbucks cup filled halfway and she emptied it, stashing her takings in the pocket of her rucksack. A man in a sharp suit gave her a sandwich and told her about free cans of sports drink being handed out in Market Street. He had a good heart.

  Mum had a good heart, Emma thought as a little girl walked past, her petite hand enveloped in a woman’s. Would she still have backed Andrea’s decision to throw Emma out if she’d been one hundred per cent well? The diagnosis had come as a shock. Yet secretly even Emma had known it made sense, like the end of an Agatha Christie novel that taunted you for not having seen the clues. Mum had always been a little forgetful – thanks to the menopause, they’d laughed. But then she’d started to forget basic words. That thingamabob became a favourite phrase. She would make up her own words – a belt became a waist tie. She was still their mother, though, and would laugh afterwards, brushing off mistakes. Eventually she started relying on Post-it notes and stuck them all over the house, reminding her of things to do and where stuff was. Yet when Emma had left, she was still tending to the livestock; stil
l doing her needlework. Perhaps there was a chance she wouldn’t get much worse for years and years.

  How would she be spending Mother’s Day tomorrow? With croissants and home-made jam for breakfast? One of Andrea’s nut roasts for lunch?

  Back in the day, Gail could have opened her own vegetarian restaurant with her spicy tofu curry and melt-in-the-mouth vegan beetroot chocolate cake. Every Sunday she insisted that the girls make dessert. When they were little, it might be a simple bowl of ice cream, with Andrea chopping fruit for the top and Emma squeezing on their favourite sauce. Emma would enjoy mothering her latest favourite toy, which meant feeding it her latest culinary creation. Soon, however, she was feeding school friends when the sisters gained skills and could produce the lightest sponge or chewiest meringue. Then they moved onto creating main courses. Gail respected their taste for the beef and chicken they’d grown to love due to Healdbury High School dinners.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Fingers dug sharply into Emma’s scalp. ‘This is my patch. EVERYONE knows that.’

  Emma’s face hit the pavement and her heart pounded. For a moment she wasn’t sure what was going on. She heard jangling. Zips opening. Coins scattered across the ground. Grazed cheeks stinging, she opened her eyes. She dragged herself to her feet and rubbed the back of her head. Before she could focus properly, a fist hit the side of her face. She cried out and almost hit the ground again. The scenery swayed. A woman dressed in stained denim collected up Emma’s money. Passers-by backed away. Some stared. Others pretended they hadn’t seen.

  ‘Leave my stuff alone,’ Emma shouted, and lunged forward, but the woman swiped again, narrowly missing her target before she turned the rucksack upside down and shook out its contents.

  Emma rubbed the side of her head. It felt sticky and wet. Like a caged animal, she paced from side to side. This wouldn’t have happened with Joe. He was always meticulous about finding safe territory. She should have guessed this prime spot was already claimed. She’d got lazy and hadn’t scouted the street the day before.