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  I can visualise her, decked out in a fake fur coat, hair tonged, and reeking of perfume. She’s slapping her hands on the front desk and digging in manicured talons.

  Ellen rummages around a cupboard, bringing out a packet of biscuits. She resumes the story. ‘Poor Kev said he didn’t know what was scarier: Patricia wailing like a banshee or Liam staring right through him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘It was soon thrown out. No proof whatsoever. Your mother let it drop, having already done the damage. Freddie was gutted and Liz distraught. I’m glad neither you nor Mandy witnessed it.’

  I haven’t felt the embarrassment of being a Taylor for years. When I meet someone new, I never mention my family. It scares me how the sense of culpability has returned. I don’t want to make apologies for my parents’ and Liam’s actions again. Those ties were severed.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Old habits die hard.

  ‘What have you got to apologise for, love?’ Ellen offers a garibaldi. I shake my hand away from them. Squashed fly biscuits are rank.

  ‘Your mother was a beast.’

  Ellen’s judgement is refreshing. Adults never said anything negative about Mum. They didn’t seem to see what youngsters did. Mum’s peers were either fooled or frightened.

  ‘I’m sorry to speak ill of the dead, but she was a detestable woman.’ Ellen flings the biscuits onto the counter.

  Mum is dead.

  16

  1st April 1986

  Gladys Greene, from Picasso Way, would have turned in her grave, if she was in it. She was close to getting there, this being the day of her funeral. Her son, Ray, agonised over the date. When the funeral director proposed first April, Ray requested another day. Superstitious Gladys wouldn’t have tolerated a burial on April Fools’ Day. Ray halted the process of looking for other dates and put himself first for once. He’d gone beyond devotion in caring for Gladys for years. If life could begin at sixty-four, this was his time.

  Gladys had had a good innings. Living to ninety-two was a blessing and a curse. Ray adored his mother even though she unwittingly became his jailer. From childhood, he’d intended to leave home as soon as possible. The desire to make a fortune increased until his father died of a heart attack when Ray was seventeen. United in grief, Ray stayed to mourn, alongside Gladys. Then he stayed and stayed some more. Whenever Gladys moved house, he swore this time he’d go, and yet his possessions always made their way to the spare room.

  Never a fan of making a fuss, Gladys prided herself on not bothering the doctor with her ailments. Ray wished she had. She endured a set of complications, resulting in her body shutting down. Gladys was from hardy stock that got on and did until she no longer could.

  When Ray finally persuaded her to seek medical advice, it exposed the consequences of her pride. Poorly managed diabetes meant she couldn’t walk unaided. Her eyesight diminished until the world disappeared. Gladys became housebound.

  She begged her son to leave. Carers could have tended to her, but the reality was Ray had nowhere to go. Living with Gladys was all he knew and it gave him a purpose. Alone, he’d have to start again. He hadn’t been ready to cut his mother’s apron strings. Death severed the cord.

  Ray stroked the glossy white coffin, recalling papery blanched hands touching surroundings to find their way. Gladys’s stubbornness often resulted in Ray finding her lying on the floor. When he left the room, she asserted her independence. Each time she fell. Gladys hated being a burden.

  The Rembrandt Estate grapevine shook with the news Gladys’s coffin lay in the Greenes’ living room. Children dared each other to sneak a peek. Heavy net curtains preserved Gladys’s dignity. Undeterred, the youngsters created stories of her haunting the estate. Younger kids went home before dark. Their older siblings took them, relieved to have the excuse. Neurotic adults stated a dead body spread germs if left in your house. Others cracked inappropriate jokes to mask a fear of death.

  Doreen understood Ray’s need to have Gladys near. Doreen had enjoyed sitting with the old woman after she’d brought over a meal. Ray insisted he could cook. Gladys confided to Doreen how four days on the trot of baked beans on toast was wearing. Wanting to help, Doreen made extra dinner when it escaped Graham’s notice. As soon as her husband left to do whatever he did of an evening, she took a plate of food round to Gladys. Having the Greenes’ company made her believe she had the better end of the deal. When she began helping them, she didn’t realise she’d receive empathy for the first time on the Rembrandt Estate. She didn’t expect Ray would offer even more.

  Marriage was sacrosanct for Doreen. From the moment she spoke them, her marriage vows remained unbroken. Hidden from sight, as Graham’s chainsaw snoring increased in volume, Doreen sat in the darkness of the dining room. Loyalty wouldn’t allow her to fantasise about another man when lying next to her spouse.

  Ray wasn’t particularly good looking and he hadn’t turned her head. His plainness gave her security. She knew she was no oil painting herself and Graham often reminded her of the fact. It was Ray’s kindness that proved irresistible.

  Ray knew Doreen’s ugly truths. He noticed the injuries and listened to her accounts. Until Graham’s death, Ray was the only person she told of her husband’s abusiveness. In contrast, Ray was a gentle soul. Unlike macho men who had something to prove, he didn’t threaten violence in return. Instead, he offered Doreen a way out. Whenever he proposed escape, she refused.

  That day was their turning point and not because of Gladys’s burial. Doreen’s answer had to be final. Ray was moving. Being a stationery salesman allowed him to relocate anywhere in England. The next day he was leaving for Northumberland. Moving as far north as possible felt right. The new start needed to be far away from Oxfordshire and its memories.

  Doreen cut the sandwiches into triangles for the wake. The kitchen clock ticked, counting down her prospects. Kelly whistled a tune as she took sausage rolls from the oven. Doreen appreciated her daughter lightening the sombre mood. Kelly didn’t know Ray and Doreen were not only mourning Gladys but also the death of their relationship.

  Doreen could not leave.

  Ray promised to make a home for her and Kelly. She believed Kelly would be happier, living with this man. She doted on him. He’d already become a father figure in helping with her homework, playing board games, and listening to her incessant chatter. Doreen regretted allowing their bond to form.

  Doreen could not leave.

  From the moment she met Graham, Doreen’s chances of happiness evaporated. Kelly would grow up and move on into a future of freedom. Doreen had made her bed. Messy and tangled as it was, she had to lie in it. As a matter of ownership, Graham would never let her go. If she left, he wouldn’t rest until he brought her home. Ray didn’t deserve a life of looking over his shoulder. Doreen refused to be the anchor holding him back.

  ‘We have to go,’ Ray said, touching her cheek.

  Doreen startled, relieved Kelly hadn’t seen. Following Ray, Doreen took a breath and prayed for strength.

  A gathering of the estate’s residents stood outside: some to see a coffin for the first time, others to report on the funeral details, many to say goodbye to one of their own. Respectful parents removed boys’ caps. Heads bowed. A hush descended. Gladys Greene left the Rembrandt Estate.

  …

  The next day, Ray Greene left too. Watching his car turn out of the estate, Doreen struggled to stay upright.

  ‘We should have gone too,’ Kelly said, holding her mum around the waist.

  Doreen could not reply. Kelly knew more than Doreen realised. Shielding the girl had proved useless.

  Just over a year later, Doreen tortured herself for allowing Ray to leave alone. If she and Kelly had left with him, her daughter would still be alive.

  17

  Present

  The humming of the fridge in Ellen’s kitchen is the only sound. She shrouds herself within her cardigan. I have no words.

  ‘Your mum died about
five or six years ago,’ Ellen says. ‘I thought you knew. It was a heart attack. Doreen found out from one of the old dears who attends Aylesbury’s community centre. She used to be Patricia’s cleaner. Only woman I’ve ever known to have a cleaner for a council house. That was Patricia for you.’

  How do I process this information? I spent most of my life wishing Mum would disappear. Grieving for her would be hypocritical. I didn’t want her as a mother and she certainly didn’t want me. Her biggest regret was not stopping at one child. She regularly told Mandy and me she’d only ever wanted Liam.

  ‘Are you okay?’ Ellen steps back to assess the damage. ‘For once I’m sorry I was the one to break the news.’

  I shrug. Better to hear it from her than to deal with Dad or Liam. Does Mandy know? I’m certain she would’ve taken it similarly. It’s like when you read of a celebrity’s death. It may be a shock but it’s none of your business.

  ‘I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Patricia was evil for what she did to you and Mandy.’ Ellen slams down the mugs of tea.

  I find my voice. ‘What do you mean?’ What does she know of my childhood?

  ‘I saw the bruises when you played with Claire. I regret making myself believe your claims that you were clumsy.’

  ‘I was clumsy.’ Remembering how I wore long sleeves to hide the evidence, I rub my forearms. Some habits are ingrained.

  ‘I knew how difficult Patricia could be,’ Ellen says. ‘Once, she grabbed Mandy so hard her arm almost wrenched out of the socket. I shouted over, pretending to want to speak to Patricia. She let go of Mandy and the poor girl dropped to the floor.’

  I don’t need to imagine it. This is one event, of many, I remember.

  Ellen continues. ‘I asked about putting an advert in the paper for her clear-up initiative. The face she pasted on, from previously being so spiteful, was chilling. She picked Mandy up, said, “Silly thing is always falling over,” and carried on as if nothing happened. I should’ve done something.’

  ‘Why didn’t you?’ I push the chair back and it hits the oven. ‘Why didn’t you help us? There were so many adults on the estate and not one of you intervened.’ My younger self is screaming at the grown-up who didn’t save me. ‘We needed someone like you to speak for us. We were only children.’

  Ellen’s eyes dart left to right. ‘I was afraid. Some residents didn’t take kindly to me covering their misdemeanours in the paper.’

  ‘What on earth has that got to do with this?’

  ‘They smashed our windows, slashed my car tyres, and even put a burning copy of the newspaper through the letterbox. They could’ve done something to Claire. So I stayed out of estate business afterwards. I didn’t report on anyone who lived there, calling it a conflict of interest. I stupidly ignored what Patricia was doing too. She was a formidable woman, I confess, I didn’t want to cross.’

  ‘You think I don’t know what she was like?’

  Anger tingles around my body. I’m scared I could hurt Ellen for allowing Mum to continue the abuse. Pushing my nails into my palms, I retreat. Ellen reaches for the sink behind her. She’s petrified. I’m afraid of me too. When I’m in this strange place, I kill people.

  Claire enters the room. ‘What’s going on?’

  Ellen puts her arms around me. Claire joins in, sensing the need to diffuse the situation.

  ‘I’m so very sorry.’ Ellen repeats the apology as if it will magically erase the damage.

  The word sorry penetrates the place in me seeking self-preservation. It’s one I often used when faced with Mum’s annoyance or for covering up the truth. I refuse to be that sorry person anymore.

  ‘It wasn’t as terrible as you think. I was accident prone. Mum got a little moody sometimes.’ Removing myself from the huddle, I step towards the door.

  ‘But Jen–’

  ‘Leave it, Mum.’ My childhood friend can still detect my emotions.

  Ellen gets the message. ‘Let’s focus on finding out what happened to Kelly, shall we?’ She scoops up the mugs and leans away from me as she passes. I resolve to work harder on controlling my anger.

  I join them, knowing we’ll be facing more complex matters than uncovering my mum’s sadistic depths. As a family, I believed we’d done an acceptable job of hiding it.

  My secrets are being discovered. Hopefully, this is where it ends.

  18

  12th October 1987

  Alex Woods knew living under the roof of two reporters, at different stages of their vocations, was risky. When engaging in a secret life, you had to be extra careful under journalistic observation. This time he’d gone too far. The adage about not defecating on your own doorstep summed up the situation.

  To date, Ellen had discovered two of his affairs. There were more but he wasn’t foolish enough to question her investigative skills. Alex considered himself lucky she forgave those she knew about.

  Being a postman had its perks. Getting plenty of fresh air and not being cooped up in an office were two. Having such a sociable job was another. Women were always on the other side of a door.

  Alex despised his cheating alter ego. He tried to fight it but blamed being a textbook cheat on deceitful genes. His mum had left when he was five. The cliché of running away with the fair held true. His dad, fortified by whisky, shared stories of what a lying whore Alex’s mother was. Instead of winning a goldfish at the fair, she bagged herself the bloke from the waltzers.

  Alex found it easier to blame his unfaithfulness on his mum than to take responsibility for his actions. As soon as he was old enough to have a girlfriend, he decided having more than one at a time increased the odds of finding “The One”. He was content loving and leaving them until Ellen came along.

  When he heard her bawling out a man for trying it on, outside the chip shop, he knew he’d met the woman he would marry. Ellen was more than his equal. They married and had a child. Alex thought he had it cracked. For years he remained in a blissful bubble of family and faithfulness.

  Then the itch ignited. It tingled under his skin at night and crackled by day. Other women existed. Alex noticed their allure beyond mothering and being a wife. Females were the kryptonite he needed to scratch away.

  He didn’t want to go for a drink when the woman asked as he handed over her parcels. He vowed to have one and then return home. Several pints later, he woke in an unfamiliar bed, to a familiar shame. He told Ellen he’d stayed at a mate’s house. Her face contorted with duelling disbelief and flimsy trust.

  The affairs began. Two discovered, threats to leave, and promises made. Promises were made to be broken.

  …

  Ellen stirred the casserole. A longing seized Alex as she lifted her hair, exposing the back of her neck. He’d never stopped loving her. Ellen had curves in all the right places and a sharp wit that confirmed he was punching way above his weight. She remained the only woman he’d ever want to spend the rest of his life with. Still, the damn itch distracted him.

  There was the added complication of a fourteen-year-old daughter who was getting wise. Claire was the compass of the Woods’ marriage. They’d planned their only child as such. Neither Ellen nor Alex could imagine sharing their parental love between several children. Alex considered the irony of how he could readily share his affections among many women. Claire was a different matter. He knew he would eventually let her down. She asked questions about where he went and what he did in the increasing absences. A postman works set hours. The pool of excuses ran shallow.

  Alex watched Claire and Jen, lowering their heads over the books scattered across the kitchen table. Alex was pleased Claire had such a loyal friend. Jen was a great girl who, Alex couldn’t fail to notice, was no longer a child. He shook the nastiness away. He would not be that man. Shame already gnawed inside when he considered how appalled his family would be with his latest indiscretion.

  No, you certainly do not crap on your doorstep, but Alex was doing his business far too close to home. The thrill of hiding in
alleyways on the estate, with his bit on the side, made his head and other parts throb. It had to stop. It was beyond wrong.

  Ellen offered the spoon for him to sample the casserole. Just a taste, he thought. Alex’s problem was that he never took a little. He had to have it all.

  He regarded his innocent wife. ‘It’s perfect. Don’t change a thing.’

  Alex had to end the affair. He hoped she would be a good girl and not make a fuss. Otherwise, he’d have to silence her.

  19

  Present

  I turn on the light and shut the door on the world, within the safety of my cottage. The sofa is my target. Doodle knows my weary body won’t make it to bed. A ginger ball of fluff lies across my feet, staking its sleeping claim. We tussle for the blanket. As usual, he wins.

  It begins.

  We’re investigating Kelly’s death. How did I get here when I’d removed myself from it as far as possible?

  When I left Ellen’s house, Claire’s eager voice assaulted my ears. A new story is in her sights and she won’t let go of it. I hope I’m clever enough to lead her in the wrong direction. Claire’s lost none of her ditziness, but she’s still shrewd.

  Ellen’s content to take a back seat in doing her part from home. Apparently, we “youngsters” can do the legwork. I’m aware I’m not young anymore. When I chat with my colleagues at Listening Ear, my middle age becomes obvious. Mentions of Bagpuss result in blank faces. The only reason they are aware The Clash existed is from the mass-produced reproduction tops they buy from the high street.

  Johnny and I considered sixteen as the golden age. Exams over, we’d be able to leave home. Reaching our forties was never in our plans. Sixteen was always the goal. How could we foresee I’d ruin everything before we reached it?