The hidden truth, p.22
The Hidden Truth, page 22
‘I’ve been thinking,’ Margaret said, the following morning, as Sara walked her, inch by agonizing inch, on her frame to the sitting room. ‘I don’t know what’s going on with this fellow, but it sounds like he’s dragged you into something you’re not at all comfortable with.’ She lifted her veiny hand from the aluminium frame for a second to push back a wisp of white hair from her forehead and looked up into Sara’s face. Her faded blue eyes were full of concern. ‘Maybe you should step back, dear, leave him to straighten things out by himself. I don’t like the thought that he’s involving you in his mess, upsetting you like this.’
That wasn’t what Sara wanted to hear. She’d woken with a small shaft of hope. If he could manage a good chat with Adam and Carrie today, maybe things would feel less fractured between them all … and therefore between her and Bernard.
She tucked her mother-in-law into her armchair, a rug over her knees: the temperature had dropped overnight and was now hovering around three degrees outside. Sara noticed Margaret’s eyelids fluttering, she was on the edge of sleep. ‘I’ve always thought living a lie – if that’s what he’s doing – kills you on some level.’ The words were unambiguous, clear as a bell. They chilled Sara, making her shudder as if a ghost had walked over her grave. It’s as if she knows it all, without being told. She wanted to say something, to refute her mother-in-law’s words. But Margaret’s eyes had closed. And what was there to refute? She was right. Bernard and Adam must go to the police.
35
Bernard, meanwhile, was drunk. He was at the stage where he automatically reached for another glass, even though it was only midday and he’d only just woken up – still in his clothes, still on the sofa, still clutching his phone to his chest, although no one was calling him. The only way forward seemed to be to drink some more, fry another egg, read some crap in the newspaper – delivered each morning, like some sour reminder of the outside world, the words incomprehensible, swimming before his eyes.
He wasn’t a big drinker, normally. But there seemed a surprising comfort in the hazy insouciance it delivered, which helped the days pass without too much coherent thought. In fact, there was relief in letting it all go, in not trying to keep things together a moment longer. It seemed forever, not just five years, that he’d been carrying this tormenting burden, trying to do right by his family. He’d been rubbish at that anyway, even on a good day.
The threat contained in the note the twins had left for him on Boxing Day morning still sat on the coffee-table. An ugly reminder that time was running out. It cut him to the quick that his children had taken off a day early – without even waking him, without saying goodbye. After Sara had left, he’d crashed out, meaning only to doze for an hour or two. But he hadn’t woken till gone ten, by which time it was too late.
Aside from hurt at their abrupt departure – for which he realized he was entirely responsible – reading the note itself made him go cold:
Hi, Dad, Sorry to run off like this, but we both decided we couldn’t face another conversation/row about everything [Carrie’s handwriting told him]. Adam and I appreciate the chats we did have with you, and the lovely Christmas you and Sara put on. Thanks. But we both feel it’s crunch time, now.
So Adam is planning to go to the police in the New Year. I’ll go with him. We can do it from Nottingham. I know this isn’t what you wanted, but he feels he has no choice. xxx
He had tried Adam’s and Carrie’s phones numerous times since. Left desperate voicemails for them to call him back when, inevitably, they didn’t pick up – assuming, no doubt, that he would attempt to dissuade them. Then he’d sat with the note in his hand, trying to work out what it would mean if the twins carried out their threat – which he was certain they would. If he didn’t go with them, it would look even worse – he was just as culpable as Adam, in a different way. But it would take the burning decision from his hands, he supposed, which might feel almost restful. The twins, however, would shun him forever. He couldn’t bear that. They have no idea what they’re getting into … They have absolutely no idea.
His mind was such a mess, it didn’t even bother him that Sara wasn’t there. Her presence was only a painful reminder of how much he continued to let her, and everyone else, down. It was better this way. They were on different sides of the fence. And it had come between them.
When memories of their time together threatened feeble tears of self-pity, he just reached for another glass of wine. He didn’t even ask himself how he would feel if she never came back.
36
While she was caring for her mother-in-law, Sara refused to think about her future with Bernard. We seem to have reached an impasse, she thought, as she plodded back along the icy streets to her house after Heather’s return. They had not been in touch. Would he even be expecting her back?
But opening her front door, she was greeted by bleak, chilly emptiness. Imagining her life without Bernard, going back to this, the tidy, solitary existence – which had been perfectly acceptable before she’d been reminded of how lovely it was to share your life – was too much for her. In spite of all that had happened over Christmas, she knew, as she stood in the cold, silent kitchen, that she was not yet ready to throw in the towel.
Her mother’s mantra, much to young Sara’s irritation when faced with a task she was finding difficult, was ‘Don’t give up, don’t give up,’ dramatic pause, ‘and don’t give up again’, delivered in a sing-song voice and accompanied by an encouraging kiss.
She knew that if she made herself comfortable now, she might never go back to her new home on the cliff. So, without allowing herself time to think, or settle back into her old home, to put on the heating and do a wash, take some brown bread from the freezer, she quickly gathered up the pile of fliers from the door mat and checked around to make sure nothing had burst or leaked in the sub-zero temperatures. Then she put on her warmest coat and locked the place, inching her way up the hill to where she’d parked the car.
Heading across the frozen, windswept landscape, she almost turned back a number of times. It was horrible negotiating the glassy coast road, and she couldn’t imagine what the narrow lanes leading to Bernard’s house would be like. Go home, she told herself. But then she would be trapped, alone with her moiling thoughts. And that, she decided, was way worse than any snowdrift, any confrontation she might have with Bernard.
The house watched her arrival with its usual lack of enthusiasm. But the Mercedes was there, covered with a thick layer of frozen snow – it was clear he hadn’t used it in a while. Sara got out of her car, shivering in the icy needles of sleet, the violent blast that threatened to blow her over. She wondered if he’d heard the car, waited to see if he would open the front door, but nothing moved except the wind.
She felt as if she no longer belonged there. Lifting the heavy iron fish that served as a door knocker, she let it fall. Did it again. On the third knock, she heard socked feet scuffing across the wooden floor inside. There was a pause, then the sound of the locks being pulled and twisted. By the time the door swung open a few inches, she was trembling from the cold … and sheer trepidation as to what she might find.
Bernard peered through the gap, like a nervous old man. He hadn’t shaved – not since she’d left, by the look of him. His eyes were blank. When he saw her, he almost recoiled. Blinking fast, he muttered, ‘Sara.’
It was an acknowledgement rather than a welcome and she might have walked away if she hadn’t been so bloody cold. ‘Can I come in, please?’
He drew the door wider, allowing her to step into the house. She could see immediately there was a problem. The blinds were down, the house in almost complete darkness apart from the small lamp by the sofa. And everywhere in the half-light were strewn old newspapers, empty wine bottles and lager cans, greasy plates and smeared glasses. Spilt cereal, open milk cartons and used teabags littered the usually pristine surfaces. The mess felt angry, as if he were projecting his rage onto the room. She gaped.
Bernard, behind her, gave a sardonic laugh. ‘See me in my true colours.’
She turned, bewildered. Then she noticed his hands were shaking as they covered his face, his body stooped over as if it was suddenly too much effort to stand. She went to him and took him by the shoulders. He smelt rank, of alcohol and old food, musty, greasy, unwashed, but she guided him to the sofa and eased him down. He lay back, eyes closed, breathing heavily.
She sat down opposite him, but he didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes. He seemed so exhausted she wondered if he’d fallen asleep. ‘Bernard?’
Suddenly he sat upright, his gaze on her uncomfortably intense, as if he were trying to fathom her out. ‘You don’t get it, do you? I’m not the man you think I am, Sara. Hasn’t Christmas … all my previous lies … proved that?’
‘Who do I think you are?’ Sara spoke calmly, although she was far from feeling it.
His smile was mocking. ‘Oh, you know, a standard good guy, no skeletons in the cupboard, someone you can walk off into the sunset with.’
She huffed. ‘Don’t insult me, Bernard. I know very well who you are.’
‘Someone who tries to do the right thing and makes a goddamn mess of it every time?’ His eyebrows rose in challenge.
She asked, ‘Did you get a chance to have a proper talk with the twins?’
‘Ha!’ He threw up his hands. ‘They were gone by the time I surfaced. Left a day early. Crept out without even saying goodbye. Can you believe that?’
She could, imagining their anger at Bernard’s behaviour on Christmas night, the dread of opening up another acrimonious discussion with their father over breakfast. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Anyway, Adam is going to the police in the new year. That’s the bombshell they dropped in the note they left on the coffee-table.’
Sara wasn’t surprised. She felt a small spurt of relief that things were moving on, not stuck in this terrible stalemate. Now it might actually be happening, though, she also felt very anxious about what it could mean for them all. It’s the right thing, isn’t it? ‘Have you spoken to them since?’
‘Nope. Scared I’ll talk them out of it, I assume.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘What choice do I have? I’ll go with them, of course.’ He looked almost surprised by his own words, as if they’d sprung from his mouth independently.
Sara got to her feet. At last, she thought, at the same time aware this was only the beginning. Throughout Bernard’s almost comical tirade of bitterness and self-pity, she’d found herself painfully aware of the love she felt for him. It flowed around her heart, her brain, her organs, into all the nooks and crannies in her body. He had lied to her, rejected her, been weak and defiant and self-pitying, a CV from which any sane person would run a mile. But his motives, on all counts, stemmed from a pure – albeit misguided – desire to protect his son. And that, however frustrating, was enough for her.
Feeling a new energy course through her at his decision, she didn’t answer him, just turned away, walking briskly over to the kitchen. She pulled out a black bin liner from the cupboard under the sink and shook it open. Then she systematically began collecting the debris: bottles and cans, newspapers and cartons. Bernard, his face showing a tired bewilderment, watched her nervously, as if she were some kind of avenging angel.
She moved on to the glasses, mugs, greasy plates, opening the dishwasher to find all the clean crockery from the Christmas meal – which she and the twins had loaded nearly five days before – still stacked within.
When she eventually finished wiping the surfaces, had wrung out the dishcloth and laid it over the mixer tap – in her own world as she worked, taps on, dishwasher whirring – she turned to find him standing stock still, right behind her. She jumped.
‘Sara …’
Drying her hands on a tea towel, she glanced up at him quizzically, waiting for him to go on. Her heart was pounding at his closeness, but she refused to show how much he was affecting her.
He pulled the tea towel out of her grasp and slung it on the worktop. Taking her hands firmly in his, he said, ‘Sara, listen. This won’t work. You and me … it’s been the best thing in my life … But, look at me, I’m a fucking wreck. I’ve got so much to sort out. And it’s not your job to do it for me.’ He swallowed hard and shook himself. ‘I’m so sorry.’ Pulling her into his arms, he held her close for a long, precious moment.
Sara swallowed her own tears: she could be stubborn too. When he finally let her go, she straightened her spine, tossing her head back. She uttered a single word: ‘No.’ It was not a cry of anguish. Not even an appeal. It was a rock-solid, determined statement of intent.
Bernard, catapulted out of his own misery, echoed, ‘No?’
‘I’m not leaving you, Bernard,’ she said. ‘I’m not sorting you out, either, by the way. You’re going to stop whining and feeling sorry for yourself and do that yourself.’ She took a breath. ‘Plus, you’re going to follow through with your promise and support the twins.’
A faint look of surprise crossed his face. ‘I am?’
Hands on her hips, Sara said, ‘Go and have a shower. You stink.’
Later, the house clean and restocked with food, Bernard sweet-smelling in fresh clothes, Sara began to come down from the high that had carried her through the previous hours. Her head ached, her throat was dry with what she feared was the start of a cold, and doubts knocked about like a football in her tired brain. But she told herself she’d made the right decision. One last chance.
They sat quietly together on the sofa, each with a glass of wine, both too tired to speak. The contents of the bowl of crisps she’d put out, the plate of salami – left over from Christmas – had disappeared within seconds. She wondered when he’d last eaten a proper meal.
‘You realize it’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow,’ Bernard said.
She frowned. ‘I was hoping you hadn’t noticed.’
He dropped a kiss to the side of her head. They hadn’t kissed properly since she’d been back. But now she felt a sudden frisson. She turned her head. Meeting his grey eyes, the breath caught in her throat. His gaze shot through her, like a hot wind, his mouth touching hers, so gentle, almost trembling.
But even as he kissed her, doubts she could not ignore came crowding back. She wanted to give in to the pleasure of his caresses – to forget for a moment all that had gone before – but she found she could not. She gently pulled back. Would he step up to the plate? How would they all cope with the fallout of a confession? Would Bernard be capable of mending the breach with his children? What would the legal consequences be? Suddenly everything seemed so uncertain, not least where she stood in all this. The twins’ deadline was defining. For them and their father, but also for Sara.
37
‘Hurry up,’ Sara said, taking a sip of her tea. It was nearly ten o’clock on New Year’s Eve and they were at the kitchen table, a scuffed, ancient draughts board between them. Both were making a fist of it, going through the motions of a couple enjoying the occasion. But it was clear their hearts weren’t in it. Not even the glass of delicious burgundy Bernard had bought for Christmas – until Carrie declared she only drank white and Adam said that red wine gave him blue lips and a headache – seemed to help.
‘All very well for you to say,’ Bernard muttered, finger pressed to one of his pieces. ‘You’ve won the last two games.’
She’d been taught by her grandfather on those holidays in the tidy Croydon bungalow. By the time she was ten, they would play these draughts matches that went on for hours, each moving their pieces with the speed of light.
Sara had not let Bernard’s promise of the day before go idle. During an earlier walk on the cliffs, the wind on the head biting, bringing tears to their eyes, she had stopped and turned to him. ‘Have you told them yet?’
He’d shaken his head, but his eyes, which he turned on her, were resolute. ‘I don’t want to say it in a text or a voicemail, Sara. I thought I’d drive up to Nottingham first thing tomorrow morning, see Adam, talk it all through properly, face to face. See the police up there, if that’s what he wants.’ His eyes had filled with tears. ‘I just want to hug him.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
He’d toed the sandy soil with his boot. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘That’s your phone,’ Sara said, now, hearing the trill from behind them on the coffee-table.
Bernard jumped up. She wondered whether it was one of his children, finally, although it seemed unlikely from their stinging radio silence. Sara had FaceTimed both her daughters earlier. Peggy was back from Berlin, still in the arms of the boyfriend. She was in an unusually dreamy mood. ‘I’ll call soon for a proper chat,’ she’d said, perhaps not comfortable with FaceTime in front of Beng. Joni had been lounging by the pool, drinking an alarmingly neon smoothie through a straw, Mason’s handsome face grinning in the background. They’d all seemed so far away, even Peggy. Sara felt as if she was losing touch with her own life, swept up, as she was, in Bernard’s. She was so looking forward to her Californian trip and having time to reconnect properly with her eldest.
She swivelled round in her chair and watched as he clicked on the call.
‘What? What?’ His face drained of colour. ‘Oh, my God … Carrie, sweetheart, slow down, I can’t understand what you’re saying. Where is he now?’ Frowning, he listened for a few moments longer. ‘OK, listen, I’m on my way. Meet you there.’ He turned wild eyes to Sara. ‘Adam’s in hospital. They’re saying it might have been a suicide attempt.’
