Joanne Sefton - The Mother’s Lies

Suddenly decisive, Barbara pointed to the jewellery box on her dressing table. ‘Put the note in there: the one from downstairs, and any others that come. There’s a compartment underneath. They’ll be safe there.’

And that was it. Barbara tucked the phone charger down the side of her little wheelie case and zipped it closed.

Helen fingered the notes in her pocket. Were the notes she’d found in the safe years old? Or had they come recently? Barbara’s explanation allowed for either possibility, but she couldn’t nail it down without admitting to the raid on the safe. She wasn’t proud of herself for riffling through her parents’ private papers, whether as a teenager or now, and it was her reticence to bring that up that had led her only to ask Barbara about the latest note.

If the notes had been coming sporadically for years, with no sort of escalation, then perhaps her mother was right to ignore it. Helen certainly found that idea more comfortable than the thought that this was something that had kicked off very recently. It was unpleasant, she reasoned, and odd. But not dangerous. As Barbara had said – they both had bigger things to worry about.

Helen

All the other NCT mums thought Helen was crackers. Barney was only two weeks old – a red, mewling alien, so tiny his whole being would expand and contract with each precarious breath. Now, rather than sitting back and letting grandparents queue up to fuss over her in the comfort of her own home, Helen was taking Barney to them.

To be fair, she realised they had a point as she packed the car. As soon as the bump became awkward, they had traded up Darren’s beloved MX5 for a family-sized Audi. When the new car was delivered, the pair of them had gaped at its interior and laughed when their few lonely shopping bags rolled around and scattered their contents across the felty wilderness of the boot. It had never occurred to them that they would fill the thing, at least not unless another two kids and a decent-sized dog came along. Yet here they were, a few months later, setting off up the M1 on the Jubilee bank holiday weekend, with the boot groaning with baby paraphernalia that they were too scared to leave behind.

But this had been how Helen had wanted it, she mused, as she held Barney’s hot little hand between her finger and thumb and gazed down at his snuffling, sleepy form in the car seat. Taking him up north meant she could show him off, but saved her from feeling like she had to play the hostess in her sore and exhausted state. She was sitting beside him in the back and it was all she could do to stop herself from unbuckling him and pulling him close. He’d been a part of her for so long, any physical gap between them seemed somehow wrong.

God knew, she’d survived just fine for long enough without a baby. Thirty-eight wasn’t ridiculously old, but given that she and Darren had been together (well, mostly) since high school and married for twelve years, there had certainly been a few raised eyebrows when they’d announced it. Already, though, she couldn’t imagine life without this mysterious snuffling bundle.

It was early June and one of the warmest days of the year so far. The daylight seemed to stretch out forever, as if they were chasing the sunset north. That always made the journey feel longer, and this one blurred into a long, fading evening of traffic jams and stops; bad coffee and bored baristas microwaving endless tubs of formula milk; the sound of Barney’s crying; that ‘Umbrella’ song that was never off the radio; and Helen’s own seldom-heard singing voice hoarse with ‘Twinkle Twinkle’. Finally, the blue signs announced their junction and Darren flicked down the indicator.

‘Don’t come off here,’ she told him. ‘I got a text from Dad; go on to the services.’

All the locals used the access road to Moreton Chase as an unofficial junction, but the motorway police closed it from time to time and it was a long trek back from the next official exit if you got caught out.

Even with the shortcut, it was gone eleven by the time they got to Barbara and Neil’s, and the hosts looked as tired as their visitors did, though their faces lit up to see them all the same.

‘Here’s the wee man!’ said Neil. ‘Bring him in, bring him in. Let’s have a proper look. Oh, he’s a smasher, Helen.’

The NCT mums had talked about their own mothers being all over their babies. But when Helen went home, it was Neil who held Barney first, who kissed his toes and nudged his pinkie into Barney’s hand so the baby’s little fingers would curl around it. Barbara stuck the kettle on so Helen could make up a bottle and they could all have a cup of tea that didn’t taste of cardboard.

When Barbara finally held him, he reached towards her and did the thing with his mouth that Darren kept saying was going to turn into smiling any day now.

‘He likes you, Barbara,’ said Neil.

‘I think he does.’ She smiled down at Barney. ‘I also think it’s about time he went down for the night.’

Neil held him again, whilst Darren and Helen brought the travel cot in from the car and wrestled it up next to their bed in the spare room. His chest still rose and fell dramatically with every breath, but Helen noticed it wasn’t as marked as it had been in those first days. Already her little boy was growing, getting stronger.

‘Are you okay?’ It was Barbara, passing by with an armful of carrier bags. Helen wondered if her mother would notice the tears threatening to seep from her eyes.

‘Deathly tired, that’s all.’ She smiled. ‘It’s been a tough couple of weeks.’

She expected her mother to frown, but Barbara just nodded. ‘There’s nothing harder than coping with a newborn, Helen. You need to be kind to yourself. You and Darren, too.’

‘Yeah.’

‘I mean it. Don’t struggle more than you have to. We can help, and Adam and Christine, of course.’

‘We’re doing fine.’

‘I’m sure you are, Helen.’

Neil opened a red wine he’d been saving and they toasted Barney first, and then, jokingly, the queen. Before long, the glasses were drained. Helen sank into bed, knowing that sleep would take her the moment she shut her eyes and that the next thing she knew would be Barney’s mewling hunger dragging her from it.

Barbara

Barbara listened for the change in her daughter’s breathing as Helen finally succumbed to her exhaustion. For a few moments, she stood by the spare room door, matching her own shuddering breath to Helen’s, trying to be slow, trying to be calm. When she was sure that her daughter was asleep, she crept into the bathroom.

The master bedroom had an en suite – Neil had plumbed it in himself ten years earlier and together they’d sponged the walls blue and lavender. The bathroom cabinet was cluttered with stuff that was never used – toiletry gifts that hadn’t quite hit the mark and little travel bags that Neil had saved from the occasional business-class flights taken before he retired. Right at the back was a cheap polyester make-up bag. Like everything else, it had gathered a fine film of dust. It wasn’t often that she felt the need to get this kit out. She was pleased to note that when she checked over the contents they were immaculate.

Next, she swabbed the toilet lid with a disinfectant wipe, before setting out the cotton wool, the steri-strips, the antiseptic and the pack of blades. Her hands shook as she ripped the cardboard from the packet.

She allowed herself a pause, more breathing and counting to steady herself, but she knew Neil would be back before too long. Of course, he couldn’t be expected to understand how difficult she found it to have a baby under her roof. He didn’t even know the memories that it brought back. This would help her, just as it had helped when Helen herself was tiny. Neil would hate it but manage to accept it nonetheless, because Neil’s best quality was his ability to accept.