‘Because I didn’t want to. It was awful. Traumatic. Then the crash happened, and that was …god… ’ She exhales a white puff of breath. ‘So much worse. I’ve never wanted you to come here again. Until this bloody movie, I never thought you would. But now … Now … ’ She fills her cheeks with another deep breath, letting it go. ‘Now, I wish I’d asked my dad which of these graves he found you by.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘It didn’t feel relevant. You were four years old, and had run away to a cemetery. That was all I cared about. But … ’ Her forehead creases. ‘… I’ve been wondering if you might know.’
‘Mum, I don’t remember doing this … ’
‘I think you should go in anyway,’ she says, and in one quick movement, opens the gate. ‘See if your feet will tell you the way.’
‘Mum, come on … ’
‘Just try,’ she says. ‘I’m with you.’
So, partly because she’s asked me to, but mainly because I need to know, I do try.
And my feet do know the way.
They take me the length of the graveyard, around the church, to an overgrown patch of grass where two simple headstones stand crookedly side by side, nestled beneath the latticed branches of an apple tree. The stones are weathered, coated in moss, but their simple inscriptions are still visible.
Catherine Winterton,reads one.b. 1900 d. 1933
Bernadette Winterton, reads the other.b.1860 d. 1933
I’ve seen pictures of both headstones before.
Just as with Bramble Lane, they’ve featured in their fair share of social media posts.
I’ve never really felt much, looking at those posts.
Not like I feel now, shivering in this cemetery on this cold, frozen day, certain, right in the core of my pounding heart, that I do know this place.
I have been here before.
Mum’s turned unnaturally still beside me, staring at the headstones too.
‘Did you have any idea?’ I ask her, the words sticking in my throat. ‘Suspect … ?’
‘No,’ she says. ‘No.I was worried you were using Iris to run away again, but no more than that.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘I’m certain. My god … I never, ever,for a moment, entertained the possibility that anything you’ve told me about this morning might be waiting for you here. Not in my wildest dreams.’ She shakes her head. ‘I didn’t want you to come back because this was such an unhappy place for you, and you’ve been unhappy enough. But I was hoping you’d get through it, be too busy to remember too much … ’
‘But I don’t remember anything about me. Only Iris.’
‘Oh, Claude … ’
‘Do you believe me?’ I ask, discovering as I do how much I need her to.
For it to not only be me who does.
‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘This is well above my pay grade. But … oh …god… ’ Tipping her head back, she stares at the sky. ‘I actually don’t know if I can say this … ’
‘Say what?’
Silence.
‘Mum, come on … ’
