It was surreal being back here and difficult to compute that Marianne was gone. I didn’t feel sad, didn’t feel relieved. If anything, I felt numb.
‘Do you know what your sister’s last wishes were?’ Will asked after a while.
‘Not a clue. We never spoke about anything like that. We barely spoke at all. I didn’t know her, Will. I didn’t even know she was ill. I asked her repeatedly and she fobbed me off. Stage four cancer. I can’t…’ I shook my head. ‘I’m guessing cremation – most people go for that these days, don’t they?’
‘Could she have left a letter in her own bedroom or somewhere else you’d find it?’
‘Oh! Christmas Day! She invited me round and I was only here for ten minutes. All she wanted to do was show me…’
I dashed into our parents’ room with Will following, folded back the rug, lifted the floorboards and removed the contents – two bundles of documents and a shoebox. The first bundle related to the cottage and included the deeds, and the second was for Dad’s smallholding.
‘Looks like Marianne sold it back to Hayscroft Farm after Dad died,’ I said. ‘That’s news to me. I assumed she had someone in managing it.’
There was a bank book attached to the sale confirmation and I opened it out, gasping at the substantial sum of money in it, presumably from the land sale.
‘That’s a lot of pennies,’ Will said when I showed him.
‘Whether the money’s still there is another matter, although I can’t imagine what she’d have spent it on if it isn’t. She’s never done anything with the cottage and she never went out.’
I moved the documents aside and lifted the lid on the shoebox. Resting on top of a pile of photographs was an envelope with my name on it.
‘Final wishes?’ Will suggested as I lifted it out.
There were two pieces of paper inside – a letter and an official-looking document, which I unfolded first.
‘It’s my full birth certificate,’ I said, clocking my name at the top. I had the short version at home – the one with my name, sex, date and place of birth – and had never thought to ask whether they had the long-form version. I scanned down the additional details and my breath caught. That couldn’t be right.
‘What’s up?’ Will asked.
I stared at the document, my stomach churning. How the hell had they all kept that from me?
47
It made no sense. It was definitely my birth certificate – Yvonne Jacqueline Lambert with the correct date and place of birth – but Polly Winifred Lambert should have been listed as my mother and Bryan Edgar Lambert as my father. Instead, the father’s name was blank and the mother was listed as Marianne Charlotte Lambert.
‘Marianne was your mother?’ Will said, his tone conveying the same shock I felt.
‘According to this, she was. I don’t get it. Why didn’t anyone tell me?’
With shaking hands, I opened out the letter, hoping it would shed some light but it was only one paragraph.
Dear Yvonne
The end is near and there’s much to explain. I wanted to write it all down but my hands hurt and my writing is scrawly so I’ve decided to record it instead. You’ll find my tape recorder in my bedroom. I’m tired so I’ll be doing it in parts. I hope I manage to finish it but apologies if I don’t quite get there.
Marianne
I wanted answers but I couldn’t seem to move. What was going on? This couldn’t be true. If my sister was really my mother, that meant my wonderful mum was really my grandma. I couldn’t get my head around it. My whole family had lied to me for my entire life and my entire life had been a lie. Who was I?
‘Are you okay?’ Will asked.
But I could only stare at him, wide-eyed, and shrug.
‘Do you want me to try and find the tapes?’
I nodded.
He scrambled to his feet and returned a few minutes later with a cassette tape player and a lead. I remembered Marianne listening to tapes on it when I was young.
