The Shadow Year (44 page)

‘I’ve just joined. There are twelve of us: eleven women and one brave man. We meet once a month and each of us takes a turn to choose the book and host the evening.’

Lila half listens, twisting her lemonade round and round on a bar mat. The last time she visited this pub her father had still been alive. It was just after her university graduation. They’d celebrated with a bottle of champagne and her parents had quizzed her over her plans. ‘So,’ her father had said over the top of his champagne flute, ‘here she is, our little girl, all grown up. What does the future hold for you now, Lila?’

She’d taken a long sip of champagne. ‘I was thinking of heading to London. Some friends of mine are getting a place. I want to get a job – maybe in brand consultancy or interior design. I don’t mind starting at the bottom . . . working my way up.’ She’d been nervous, she remembers, desperate for his approval.

Her father had looked seriously at her. ‘Is that what you
really
want to do?’

She’d nodded and held her breath.

‘Well, Lila, you have to follow your dreams,’ he’d said, looking at her wistfully. ‘You have to do the thing you truly love. Sometimes I think your mother and I gave up too easily on our ideals.’

She’d shot her mum a look but she’d just shrugged back at her. He got like that sometimes – regretful, maudlin – and they both knew to change the subject when he did.

The sun makes another appearance from behind a cloud. It glowers at them through the window. Lila can feel it beating onto her back. The bread is sticking in her throat. She swallows it down with another glug of lemonade. She is too hot. She unwraps her scarf and lays it on the seat beside her. She cuts a slice of Cheddar and places it to her lips.

‘Are you all right? You’ve gone quite green.’

Lila nods and tries to clear her throat. She could tell her mother about the pregnancy now, she realises, but she’s still struggling and, thankfully, her mum continues with her monologue. She can’t decide which book to choose for the following month’s meeting. Lila chews her food slowly as the merits of two literary novels are compared, until she realises silence has fallen over the table once more. She looks up with a half smile, unsure whether it is agreement or dissent that is required of her, but it’s neither. Her mother seems to have forgotten all about the book club. Instead, her hand has flown to her mouth and she is gazing at Lila in the most peculiar way – startled, as if she has seen a ghost. ‘Oh . . . oh my,’ she stutters.

Lila glances down at her top. Has she spilt something? Have the buttons of her blouse come undone?

‘Your – your necklace.’ The blood drains from her mother’s face.

Lila raises her hand to her neck. She fingers the silver pendant. ‘This one?’

Her mother’s eyes are fixed on her neck. ‘It’s just – it looks – just like hers. Wh-where did you get it?’

Lila gives her a strange look. ‘It was a present. From a friend.’

‘Which friend? What’s her name?’

Lila shakes her head. ‘It’s a
he . . . his
name is William.’ Her mother just stares at her, so Lila continues. ‘He’s someone I met up at the cottage.’

‘What cottage?’

‘You know, the one I’ve been staying at, doing up. I
did
tell you about it.’

Her mother’s eyes are wide and she seems to be having trouble swallowing. She reaches for her glass of water and takes a sip. When she has recovered she turns back to Lila. ‘Darling,’ she says, ‘where is this cottage exactly?’

Lila swallows. ‘Didn’t I say? It’s up in the Peak District, but it’s kind of hard to explain.’

‘Try.’ It comes out sounding harsh, like an order.

‘I don’t know,’ she begins, ‘it’s in the far north, near a village called Little Ramsdale, nestled in a small valley beside—’ She doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Her mother does it for her.

‘—beside a lake.’

‘Yes,’ says Lila, intrigued. ‘How did you know that? Mum, are you OK? Is something wrong?’

Lila watches as her mother pushes her plate of greasy fish bones to one side. She puts her fingers to the collar of her shirt and tries to loosen it, as though she is struggling to breathe. Lila watches her carefully, but there is something else nagging at her now. She has missed something. She replays their conversation again and suddenly they are there again: three familiar words echoing in her head.

Just. Like. Hers.

They are almost the exact words from her dream. The words she is sure she heard following behind her as she tumbled down the stairs. And suddenly, with a cold, creeping, realisation, Lila knows who was in the house with her the day she fell. It wasn’t Tom. It wasn’t him she had argued with and fled down the landing from. It wasn’t him who had followed, crying out those words. It wasn’t his hands that had lunged for her, pulled at her, sent her off balance. It wasn’t his eyes hers had turned to meet as she’d clawed at the air, panic-stricken, knowing there was nothing to stop her going over, nothing to stop her from toppling down the stairs, cartwheeling and ricocheting all the way down.

It wasn’t Tom. It was her mother.

Lila stares across at her for a moment. ‘What did you mean,’ she asks, trying to steady her voice, ‘“just like hers”?’

Her mother glances away. ‘Sorry?’

‘The necklace . . . you said it was “just like hers”. Who did you mean?’

Her pale face visibly reddens but she swallows and shakes her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

Lila tilts her head to one side, eyes her carefully then takes a breath. ‘Why did you do it, Mum?’

‘Do what?’

‘Why did you lie about what happened? That day, in my house, on the stairs?’

Her mother opens her mouth to speak but Lila holds up her hand; she isn’t finished. ‘You were there, weren’t you?’

Her mum remains silent and so Lila continues, piecing things together out loud. ‘You didn’t see me through the letter box. You didn’t let yourself in with the spare key and call the ambulance, did you? I’d already let you inside. You came upstairs with me, to help me find something to wear. I remember now. I let you in. I was in a flap. I was moaning about how I couldn’t find anything nice to wear that still fitted over my bump.’ Her mother’s face is a picture of horror but Lila doesn’t stop. ‘I remember. You followed me upstairs, came and sat on the bed while I tried on clothes.’

She shakes her head. ‘No, that’s not—’

‘That’s when I asked you about Dad, isn’t it? I wanted to talk to you about him . . . about his affairs and about how he’d treated you.’ She sees her wince. ‘He was gone – but I wanted to talk to
you
. . . to try to understand it . . . to try to understand your relationship. But you got so cross. You screamed at me to stop and I said “no”. I said I was sick of the lies. Of the pretence. I wanted to understand why you stayed with him, in such a toxic relationship.’

‘It wasn’t toxic.’ She says it under her breath, so that Lila has to lean in to hear her mother’s words. ‘It was love. True love.’

Lila gives a tiny snort. ‘Love? There wasn’t much love in that house, not in all the years I was there. You jabbed at each other like fencers, trying to make contact, trying to score points whenever you could. That wasn’t love.’

‘Stop it.’

‘It wasn’t. But you got so angry, didn’t you? When I dared to criticise Dad and your devotion to him, no matter what he did, no matter how many women he slept with. You were enraged, like you are now, except here we are in a public place and oh, no,’ Lila gives a bitter laugh, ‘we mustn’t make a fuss, must we? God forbid we draw attention to ourselves or actually speak the truth for once.’

Her mother glances about angrily. ‘For God’s sake just stop, Lila. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘All I wanted to know was
why
you put up with it? All I wanted to understand was why you allowed him to make you so unhappy. But you couldn’t bear to hear the truth. I remember it all now.’ And she does. In a sudden rush Lila is back there in her bedroom, facing off with her mother across a double bed strewn with clothes.

‘Don’t talk about your father like that, not when he’s not here to defend himself,’ her mother had screamed, still raw with grief.

‘But if we couldn’t talk about it when he was alive and we can’t talk about it now he’s gone, when, Mum?’

‘Why are you doing this? Why are you trying to upset me like this?’ she’d cried. ‘I’ve given you everything,’ she’d implored.

‘I’m not trying to upset you, Mum; I’m just trying to understand things. To understand
him
. Why were we never enough for him?’

Tears had coursed down her mother’s cheeks. ‘We were enough, Lila.’

‘Are you still trying to deny his affairs, his lack of commitment?’

‘Stop it, just stop it.’

‘He was my father, Mum, but you know sometimes he wasn’t a nice man. It doesn’t hurt to admit it.’

Her mother had stared at her then, her eyes had swept over her, from head to toe, and Lila had been filled with the strangest sensation, that her mother was seeing her, and yet not seeing her. She’d shaken her head. ‘All this time . . . you’re just like her.’

Lila had barely heard, fury ringing loudly in her ears. ‘I can’t stand this,’ she’d said and had moved to leave the room, but her mother hadn’t wanted to let her go.

‘Don’t walk out of here. Don’t leave the conversation like this. I won’t have it.’

Lila remembers it all now, pushing past and racing away down the hallway, her mother calling for her to come back. ‘Lila! Stop, Lila!’ her voice echoing down the landing, but Lila had lumbered on, the swell of her belly slowing her. She had almost been at the top of the stairs, just reaching for the banister when she felt her mother’s hands grabbing at her, trying to pull her back, but somehow tipping her off balance so that she stumbled and teetered before falling headlong down the stairs.

‘You tripped me,’ she says, her voice barely a whisper. ‘You sent me over.’

‘No. I was trying to stop you. I didn’t want you to leave. I wanted to talk about it.’

‘Your hands.’ Lila shivers. ‘I remember. I can still feel them.’

‘I just wanted you to stop. I just wanted you to listen. I wanted you to think about what you were saying and to understand the sacrifices we made for you. You father and I, we loved you – so much. I couldn’t hear those awful words coming from your mouth. You were so angry. You looked . . . you looked . . .’

‘What?’ asks Lila. ‘I looked what?’

‘Just like her.’ She says it in a small voice.

Lila stares at her in fascination. ‘Like who?’

But her mother is crying now and she just sits there and shakes her head, reaches into her handbag for a handkerchief, sniffs and wipes at her tears. ‘You were running away from me and I didn’t want to lose you. I couldn’t lose you. Not after everything else. I reached out to stop you. I just wanted to hold you, to talk to you . . . but I must have put you off balance. You stumbled. You fell. The stairs were right there. You fell all the way down, toppled right over and landed at the bottom.’ She bites her lip. ‘You weren’t moving. I was so scared. I thought you were dead. I thought it was my punishment.’

‘Your punishment? For what?’

Her mother just shakes her head again. ‘I called the ambulance right away, then I waited with you for them to come.’ She is weeping openly now. ‘I was so scared. I sat beside you in the ambulance and I held your hand. I called Tom and told him what had happened. I wanted to be there for you. I wanted to help.’

Lila stares at her. ‘But you couldn’t help. No one could. My baby was coming – too early. It was your fault.’

‘No. It was a terrible accident.’

‘So why lie about it? Why lie about being there with me in the first place?’ Lila reaches for her scarf and bag then stands. She can’t bear to hear any more. She isn’t sure what to believe, but she knows she can’t sit there next to her mother and think about this madness another moment. Her mother has lied to her, over and over, and she can’t stand to hear one more word leave her mouth.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Home.’

‘Don’t go. Let’s talk this through. I need you to understand.’

‘Oh, I think I understand. All these months I
knew
there was something. I’ve been blaming myself . . . told myself I was going crazy with strange nightmares and fragments of memories . . . and yet you were there. You were there with me. You were responsible.’

‘No. I never wanted any of this to happen. I was going to talk to you about it but when you came round in the hospital and didn’t seem to remember’ – Lila sees her mother at least has the good grace to look ashamed – ‘there didn’t seem to be anything to be gained by dredging it up again. I didn’t want to upset you any more than you were already. You had so much to deal with.’

‘So you lied?’ Lila stares down at her through narrowed eyes. She can feel the barman’s curious gaze from across the room but she doesn’t care. She shakes her head. ‘You don’t have any idea, do you, what I’ve been through these last few months?’

Her mother casts about desperately. ‘Don’t go,’ she pleads. ‘Let’s talk this through.’

But Lila shakes her head again. ‘No. All I want right now is for you to leave me alone.’

She turns and stalks through the dining room, ignoring the glances and raised eyebrows of the other customers as she half runs, half walks out of the pub. The whole way to the car she expects to feel her mother’s hands at her back, to hear her plaintive cries, but as she draws closer to the car, the only voice she hears calling out to her is a man’s. ‘Excuse me,’ she hears, ‘excuse me, miss . . .’

She turns around in a daze, and eyes the young barman racing towards her.

‘Is this yours?’ he asks, holding out her mother’s credit card. ‘I think you left it behind the bar.’

Lila looks at him, confused.

He half shrugs then looks down and reads the name printed across the bottom. ‘Are you Freya? Mrs Freya Everard?’

Lila stares at him for a long moment then shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says, ‘Freya’s my mother. It’s
her
card. You’ll find her in the restaurant.’