The Shadow Year (49 page)

‘I am your mother, Lila. I’m the one who raised you and loved you, fed and clothed you, nursed you when you were sick and dressed your cuts and bruises when you fell. I was the one that was there for you – no matter what.’ She swallows hard and Lila can see she is fighting tears. Then finally, she raises her head to look at Lila. ‘But my name isn’t Freya.’

Lila gapes at her mother.

‘My name is Kat – Katherine. Freya was my sister.
She
was your birth mother.’

Lila wants to laugh. The words leaving her mother’s mouth are nonsensical. Ridiculous. She sees her mother glance again at the pendant hanging from her neck.

‘That necklace you’re wearing once belonged to Freya, your real mother. It was hers. Mac gave it to her.’ She stops and corrects herself. ‘Sorry,
William
gave it to her.’

Lila looks across to William. He lifts his head to meet her gaze and gives her the slightest nod, half affirmation, half apology, before dropping his eyes down to the ground, fixing them on a stray clump of daisies. She can’t process what her mother has just told her so she focuses on the incidentals. Mackenzie Farm. William Mackenzie. Mac, to his friends? The cogs turn in her mind and one small piece of the puzzle slots into place.

Lila stares at William, then back to her mother where she sits on the fallen tree, her eyes glistening with tears. Somewhere high above them a kite wheels as a dark silhouette in the sky. Beside the cottage the honesty shivers in the breeze. After all that has happened, after all the murkiness of the past and the strange dreams and fragments of broken memories, Lila understands that she is about to hear the truth – at last.

She turns away from the cottage and the honesty and back to the woman sitting on the tree trunk. ‘Tell me,’ she says, challenging her with her gaze, ‘tell me all of it.’ And as the sun shines down on them and the trees rustle and whisper their secrets to the lake, Lila listens intently as her mother reveals the final, hidden chapter of their story.

24

JUNE

1981

Ben and Carla are the first to go. They steal away in the dead of night like teenage runaways, taking nothing but their rucksacks, Ben’s battered guitar and half the cash left in the money tin. Simon is furious to discover them gone. ‘How dare they? What about friendship? What about loyalty? What about the bloody vegetable garden?’ He takes the gun outside and vents his anger at the unsuspecting ducks drifting on the lake. Shots ring out angrily across the valley and Kat’s shoulders tense at every echoing boom. Upstairs the baby begins to cry.

Kat pretends to share Simon’s indignation. To his face she nods and declares Ben and Carla’s actions a gross betrayal, but secretly she is relieved. She understands that finally it is happening. The house of cards is crumbling. There are just four of them left at the lake now – five if you count the baby. It seems as though the last few pieces are being moved into place on a chequerboard and Kat feels sure that the game they have played for almost a year is drawing to its conclusion.

There are complications though. Freya won’t get out of bed. She lies on the mattress in the corner of the upstairs room, her gaze fixed to the clouds drifting past the window as the baby sleeps beside her, snuffling and gurgling in the Moses basket beneath the knitted purple blanket. When she cries, Freya reaches for her and silences her at her breast. Kat hears her singing lullabies, her soft melody reminding her of something from her childhood; something from a long, long time ago; the sour smell of vodka and the soft-crooning voice of their own mother.

Kat climbs the stairs with fresh nettle tea and toast and finds her sister crying into her quilt. ‘Shhhh . . .’ she says, ‘it’s OK.’

‘I can’t do this.’ Freya’s voice is flat. ‘I can’t stay here.’

‘You’re tired. You need to eat something. Here.’ She tries to hand her the plate of toast but Freya ignores it.

‘What about Evelyn? Will she come?’

‘We’ll see. She’s a busy woman. You know she has a farm to run.’

‘But you’ve asked her?’

Kat nods but she can’t hold her sister’s eye. Even though Freya has been asking for Mac’s mum, she and Simon have privately agreed not to invite her. They don’t want
her
– a virtual stranger – poking around in their business and, for the time being at least, Mac seems to be following their lead.

Freya visibly slumps. ‘I suppose you know that Simon wants the baby. He says he wants to help me raise her.’ She swallows and then looks up at Kat with panic-stricken eyes. ‘He’s written to his parents. He’s told them about me . . . and Lila. He’s asked them for money . . . so we can . . . so we can carry on here.’ She buries her face in the pillow.

Kat feels a surge of bitterness. Of course, she thinks, of course he’d ask them for help
now
. She tries to swallow her anger. ‘Shhhh . . .’ she says to Freya, ‘you’re overwrought. You have to keep your strength up, for the baby.’

Freya doesn’t respond, she just sniffs into the pillow, so Kat leaves the plate of food on the floor beside the bed and moves across the room. It’s so quiet she’s assumed the baby is asleep, but when she peers over the edge of the basket she sees that Lila is wide awake and staring up at her with her huge navy eyes, lips sucking at her fist. She stares down at the baby, gazes into her knowing blue eyes, studies the tiny curve of her nose and the sprouting fuzz of hair on her head. She looks and looks but she can’t see anything of either Simon
or
Mac in the baby’s features. She’s just a baby – small and wrinkled. She watches her for a moment longer, then turns on her heel and leaves the room.

‘God,’ she says, jumping at the sight of Mac hovering at the top of the stairs, ‘I wish you’d stop doing that. You made me jump.’

‘Sorry.’ He shuffles on the landing, hands in his pockets. ‘How is she?’

Kat shrugs. ‘She’s tired.’

‘The baby’s OK?’

Kat nods and the sound of Freya’s soft weeping escapes from beneath the door.

‘I’ve heard . . . that sometimes . . .’

Kat shifts impatiently.

‘. . . some women can get depressed, you know, after a baby.’ He eyes Kat. ‘Do you think she’s all right? Are you sure we shouldn’t send for my mum?’

Kat is tired. She hasn’t been sleeping well either, not since the night the baby was born. The cottage is too small and the baby’s frequent crying disturbs them all. ‘Tell me something,’ she sighs, ‘why do you all seem to think
I
have the answers?’

‘Because you’re her sister.’

‘Well maybe someone should have told
her
that before she slept with
my
boyfriend.’

A pink flush spreads across Mac’s cheeks but he continues anyway. ‘I could help. I could take her somewhere – somewhere far away.’ He doesn’t need to say from whom; it’s plainly clear.

Kat gives a low, angry laugh. ‘You think he’s just going to let you waltz out of here with them both? You’ve seen the way he looks at that baby. It’s his new project – more than me, or Freya, or this damn cottage will ever be.’

‘But maybe that’s not his decision to make, maybe—’

Kat shakes her head. ‘If you love her so much, Mac, you figure it out. Step up. Be the hero.’ She stomps down the stairs. Bloody Mac, none of this would have happened in the first place if he hadn’t brought them to this stupid lake and let Simon play his silly games.

Without Carla and Ben around, the atmosphere in the house takes on a sombre, oppressive air, like the hours before a storm when the sky fills with dense black clouds and everything falls quiet and still. With Ben gone, food preparation has become sporadic and it’s strange to look out across the vegetable plot and no longer see Carla’s form bent over a row of lettuces, or fixing wire strings for the runner beans. Kat misses her cheery face and her light, easy laughter. The only sounds in the house these days are the slamming of doors, the hungry wails of the baby or Freya’s incessant weeping. Kat just wants it all to end. She wants it to be over.

She takes Freya a plate of scrambled eggs and a bowl of fresh strawberries plucked from the garden. Freya’s face is tear-stained and blotchy but she doesn’t even acknowledge the food tray; she is too busy scribbling on a piece of paper.

‘There’s going to be a royal wedding,’ Kat says – a peace offering – but Freya doesn’t look up. ‘Charles and Diana. Simon says the papers are full of it . . . that they’re calling it a real-life
fairy tale
.’ Freya remains silent. ‘What are you doing?’ Kat asks eventually, noting the silver honesty pendant winking at her sister’s throat, realising Mac must have given it to her after all. As she waits for an answer she moves across the room and stares at the sleeping baby in the basket.

‘I’m giving you what you want,’ says Freya finally, her voice flat and expressionless.

‘And what do I want?’ Kat asks, not looking up from the baby, watching her tiny chest rise and fall, up and down.

‘Simon.’

Kat turns to Freya then and shakes her head. ‘It’s not that simple.’

Freya holds her gaze for a moment then turns away. She folds the piece of paper carefully in half and then slides it beneath her pillow.

Kat sees the tangle of her sister’s hair, her red-rimmed eyes, her dishevelled nightdress and sighs. Maybe Mac is right; maybe she isn’t coping. ‘You should come downstairs,’ she tries, ‘get some fresh air. It might make you feel better.’ But Freya just sinks down below the covers and closes her eyes. ‘Suit yourself.’

It feels like too long since any of them have eaten a proper meal. Longer since they’ve slept. The bread is all gone and they are nearly out of milk powder and rice. Kat feels hunger yank at her belly like a dog tugging at the end of a huge, immovable object. She wanders through the garden and finds a cluster of green beans, a handful of berries. She doesn’t wait but pushes them into her mouth and chews quickly. They taste of soil and sunshine in her mouth and jostle and grumble in her guts afterwards.

‘There are rabbits all over the hillside,’ says Simon, coming through the back door, the rifle propped on his shoulder. I’ve been watching them through the sights.’

Mac nods. ‘We should check the traps.’

She must hear them go because Freya appears in the kitchen a few minutes later. Kat is surprised to see her out of bed. Her face is pale but there are high spots of colour on her cheeks and her eyes shine like glass. The baby is clasped close to her breast.

‘You’re up,’ says Kat. ‘I’ve just boiled some water. Would you like tea?’

Freya nods and takes a seat at the table. She pulls the baby close and bends her head, as if to breathe in the warm scent of her. She seems different. Agitated.

‘Are you OK?’ Kat asks, eyeing her.

Freya nods again but still she doesn’t speak.

Kat moves about the kitchen. She finds nettle leaves in the pantry and chops them on a board. Then she splashes hot water over them and pushes the mug towards Freya. Her sister still wears her nightie; it’s crumpled from wear and gives off the faint smell of stale milk. She has forgotten to do up the buttons after feeding the baby and Kat can just make out the pale curve of her breast. There is no shine to her any more, no light in her skin. Her hair hangs lank and greasy around her shoulders and an angry red pimple blooms on her chin. Freya doesn’t seem to notice her sister’s close scrutiny; she just reaches for the mug and drinks deeply.

‘You should get some fresh air,’ Kat suggests. ‘It would do you good. It’s a lovely day.’

Freya nods and stares into her mug.

‘I’ll look after the baby if you like.’

Freya looks down at her lap as if seeing the baby for the first time. She nods. ‘I need to wash . . .’ she says, her voice cracking. ‘A swim in the lake.’ She reaches up to touch a clump of her greasy hair and Kat smiles, relieved.

‘That’s a good idea. It will make you feel so much better.’

‘You’ll look after Lila?’

Kat smiles. ‘I’d love to.’

Freya finishes her mug of tea and stands. She holds the baby close, breathing in the scent of her once more, before handing her to Kat. ‘Look after her.’

‘Of course I will. I’m not completely inept. We’ll be right here, won’t we?’ She smiles down at the baby, then looks to her sister and is startled to see tears welling again in Freya’s eyes. ‘Don’t cry,’ she says, ‘it’s the baby who’s supposed to cry all the time – not you. Everything will be OK, somehow, you’ll see. It’s just going to take a little time to adjust.’

Freya nods and leaves the kitchen without a backwards glance. Kat watches her through the window as she heads out across the grassy bank and then sways down towards the water. She stumbles once, rights herself, and then wades into the shallows.

Kat turns back to the baby in her arms. ‘Silly Freya,’ she croons to the infant, ‘she’s still wearing her nightie.’

The baby is warm and light in her arms. Sunlight filters through the window and lands on her shoulders and neck. Kat closes her eyes, her ears tuning in to the drowsy buzz of a bee caught at the window. She hears the gentle splash of Freya bathing in the lake. There is something soporific about holding a sleeping baby, something calming about her sweet perfumed skin and the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Lila’s snuffling noises mingle with the lazy, faraway splash of Freya moving through the water. The sleepless nights are catching up with her. Kat allows her breath to rise and fall in time with the baby’s chest. She’ll open her eyes. Any moment now and she’ll open them. One more minute with the warm sun on her back and this baby sleeping peacefully in her arms. One more minute.