‘You can come and visit.’ You’d already made up your mind. You paused, thoughtful for a moment. ‘There’s something you’ve said to me and Ollie – about wishing you’d been a better mum. But I want you to know you were the best.’ Coming over, you hugged me. Then as you pulled away, your eyes lingered on mine. ‘Ollie and I are so lucky to have you.’ There was a huskiness to your voice. ‘In case you don’t know, you gave us what we needed most. Just saying.’ You kissed me on the cheek, headed towards the door.
I knew what you were talking about. What every child needs: the gift of wings. Half-smiling, you paused in the doorway, turning to look at me over your shoulder, your pale blue eyes sparkling at me.
Without you both, I was bereft, happy for you, sad for me. Also, I couldn’t deny that I was anxious; worried that alcohol had become your crutch. But I couldn’t stop you going. All I could do was hope that there would be good people around you, who shared your passion; who would look out for you.
By February that year, I’d closed the door for the last time on the house we’d rented. Moved back to our old family home that had given up any resemblance to how it used to look. Every wall had been painted, old carpets ripped up, floorboards sanded and dressed with a couple of new rugs.
Once I’d unpacked, I invited Lucy to come and view it. My biggest critic, when I’d told her my plan, she’d made her doubts known. But even she was impressed.
‘I thought there’d be too many memories attached to this place,’ she said as she looked around. ‘But it feels completely different. It looks fantastic, Edie.’
‘Thanks.’ It meant the world to have Lucy’s seal of approval. ‘Come and see upstairs.’ I was especially proud of your bedroom – grown-up, yet with a nod to the past; the bed dressed in dusky pink linen, your books arranged on a shelf, Eeyore in the corner of another. A collage of your old photos mounted on a wall.
I’d even painted the front door a subtle moss green, a touch that felt symbolic. Then added shiny blue pots of sculptural plants. If Ryan did ever come back, though I hoped he wouldn’t, I was pretty sure he would barely recognise it.
Spring came, the cherry tree in the garden festooning itself in its annual coat of the pale pink blossom that, as a child, you used to scoop up and scatter to the wind; a carpet of crocuses splashing the grass with colour. Ollie’s year in Canada was a resounding success. But your move was less so, the job not what you’d hoped it would be.
‘It’s so fricking political, Mum. Everyone’s in it for themselves. I mean, for fuck’s sake. It’s an animal welfare charity.’
‘Maybe it’s not the place for you,’ I said tentatively.
‘It isn’t,’ you said quickly. ‘But it doesn’t mean I should walk away. It needs someone like me to make it change.’
I should have known you’d take it on as a personal challenge. If anyone could move a mountain, it was you. But I wasn’t prepared for the toll it would take, for your emotional phone calls.
You shared more with me at that time than you had in years. ‘What do I do, Mum? Loads of people here feel the same as I do. They’re just too gutless to speak their minds.’
‘They probably have rent or mortgages to pay – they’re worried they’ll lose their jobs, Lex,’ I gently pointed out the obvious. ‘I’m sure, like you, they care.’
‘Not all of them, Mum. When I came here, I thought everyone would. But to some of them, it really is just a job.’
It was the reality of how the world worked. The flipside of your passion again, of the energy you had that you needed to channel, that you needed people around you who felt the same. You stuck it out, but as more time passed, you told me you’d started looking at other jobs.
Then out of the blue, you were quiet. I took it to mean that in spite of your earlier doubts, you felt you were in the right place. More time had to pass for me to find out how wrong I was.
24
BEFORE
Dear Lexie,
That year you were away was a strange one for me. A first at that point – you and Ollie both far away. When your calls went quiet, I guessed you hadn’t found the right job to move to, or you’d decided to stay where you were, to ride it out. Another year had passed during which I’d seen you twice. Made a fleeting visit to where you were living; misinterpreted your reluctance to come back to a house which held too many memories for you.
Until one evening, there was a knock on the door that startled me. Dreading it was Ryan, I went to open it.
But you were standing there. ‘Mum?’ You looked hesitant. ‘Can I come home?’
Home. A word that had always been so laden with expectation – mine, rather than yours. Of course I wanted you home, as I always would. But for you, it was only ever going to be a stopgap, rather than the answer you sought.
As you came inside, my mind was filled with questions as I hugged you, then closed the door behind you. ‘How did you get back?’ I asked.
But instead of answering, you just stood there, looking around. ‘I hardly recognise this place,’ you said. ‘You’ve made it look amazing.’
‘Thank you.’ I watched you take off your jacket, automatically hanging it up next to the door – a new coat hook in the same place as the old ones used to be. ‘How long are you home for?’
You sighed. ‘I’m not sure.’ An anxious look crossed your face. ‘Are you sure it’s OK if I stay?’
‘Of course it is,’ I said hastily. ‘You don’t have to ask. It’s your home, Lex.’
