‘We all have mothers to deal with.’
‘I’m sure, but I don’t think most mother’s are, were, quite like mine. I used to think all mothers were the same, until I went to school. There I discovered some mothers actually loved their children, their daughters.’
‘I’m sure your mother loved you.’ Stephanie heard her voice. It sounded patronising even to herself.
‘No, I know she didn’t. She actually hated me. And after my father left, she showed me how much she hated me. Every day.’ Sarah looked her in the eye. ‘You’ve seen my body. All of it. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice the scars? Scars in places that no one else would ever see.’
Stephanie remembered them. Her face flushed. She remembered being intrigued by them, and then dismissing them.
‘My mother became an expert at learning to hurt me in places no one would see, in ways no one would question. I had to walk to school with burns on my feet, and she would threaten me if I limped in anyway. She could trip me up in front of people, making me look clumsy, while she got sympathy for having such a clumsy child. The doctors knew I was clumsy, never questioned the bruises. And when she did go too far, she found ways round it. No, my mother did not love me at all.’
‘I’m sorry. We can look at this, and we can see that even though your mother may not have loved you, you are still a wonderful person.’ Oh god, what was Sarah saying. And why was she taking it out on Robert?
Sarah laughed. ‘So, lovely you, set me up with Robert.’ She paused. ‘Well, now it’s your fault my mother is dead.’
‘What do you mean, my fault? How could it be anything to do with me.?
‘I killed her.’
Silence. Stephanie couldn’t speak. She wanted to say, you’re joking, but looking at Sarah, she knew she wasn’t joking. How could she have killed her? All the questions circling her mind and all she could ask was,
‘How?’
‘Poison.’
Stephanie said nothing. She wished she had turned the tape on, but she was not expecting this. She had expected Sarah to be upset, ranting about Robert and what had happened. She certainly didn’t want a tape of that. But this? This was serious. If she was telling the truth, Robert was in serious trouble. Stephanie watched Sarah, sitting in the chair, her face impassive, bored, looking ahead of her, as if she was looking out of a window, but all that was in front of her was a blank wall. She wasn’t even looking at a painting. In that split second Stephanie recognised the truth. She had killed her mother. Jane had definitely been right about her.
‘It was in a magazine at the surgery.’ Sarah’s voice became quiet, a monotone as she stared at the wall. ‘A little girl died after picking a cigarette butt off the floor and eating it. Nicotine is a lethal poison. Did you know that?’ Sarah turned and looked up at her. Stephanie shook her head, Sarah looked back at the wall. ‘Yes, it is. I looked it up in the book at the surgery. They have a book on poisons there. I made a beautiful steak stew. Mother’s favourite. I spent hours cooking it, making sure the meat was tender. I used oregano, and some marjoram. They both work very well with steak. I think it was in one of Delia Smith’s recipes, or it may have been someone else. It had carrots and peas and just a touch of red wine. Even cold it tastes good. Mother was yelling at me to bring her her dinner. I dished it out, and some for myself, and then when it was on the tray, I poured on this beautiful golden syrup. I made that as well. It only took a couple of days. It looked so pretty, I wanted to taste it.’ She looked over at Stephanie again, ‘I’m not that stupid.’
Stephanie noted the vacant look she had seen on Sarah’s face at the dinner table, before she turned back to stare at the wall, quietly continuing her story.
‘I laid her plate on the tray, and poured her a glass of wine. She’d have her brandy later. The book in the surgery says nicotine is untraceable. Did you know that? Then I took the tray to her while she watched television. She was watching her favourite DIY programme. Aren’t they awful? I decided I’d eat in the kitchen. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to watch her eat or not. Would I stop her if I watched, I wondered?’ Turning to Stephanie, she asked, ‘Would you stop someone you hated eating poison?’
She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘In the end I stood at the doorway. She didn’t know I was there. And I watched her shovel it down. I didn’t want to stop her, I wanted to help her, I wanted her to eat it faster. I wished I had more of that golden syrup, in case it didn’t work. What if I hadn’t made enough? What if she woke up the next morning? How awful would that have been?’ She looked up at Stephanie, ‘Can you imagine? To have to prepare it all again! Oh yes, I’d have done it all again. But she hardly tasted it. All that work. Gone in just a few moments. She never appreciated my cooking. I love cooking. I’ve got lots of cooking books. The only books she would buy for me, or let me buy. Soon after she finished, she started to feel ill. I think it was because she had eaten too quickly, nothing to do with the poison. You really shouldn’t gobble your food like that. You should chew it at least 30 times before you swallow. I helped her upstairs and put her into bed. Before she went to sleep, I let her have a final cigarette. And of course she wanted a brandy and her sleeping pills with it. I went downstairs to get it for her. And after her cigarette, I gave her a couple more sleeping pills. The doctors knew she was forgetful, they also knew how cantankerous she was, and that I could not control her. So the sleeping pills were to make sure she wasn’t sick. Then I watched again. I watched until she fell asleep. I wanted to make sure she didn’t vomit it all up again. Then I closed the door, knowing when I opened it in the morning, she would be dead. I went downstairs, sat at the kitchen table, and ate my dinner. I was starving. And it was delicious. Completely wasted on her. I’ll let you have the recipe if you’d like it. It’s really nice.’ She turned back to Stephanie once more, her hands smoothing down her skirt. ‘Death by misadventure. The doctor knew she was forgetful and there were sleeping pills missing. Dr. Short wasn’t going to make a fuss, because I’d told him I was worried and he’d been too busy to see her.’
Stephanie needed to go home. She needed a drink. She needed the dogs.
Turning the corner, she could see the gate open. She had closed it this morning; she remembered doing it. Trevor must have gone out and left it open by mistake. Her breathing stopped as she entered the drive. Facing her was a white van. Backed up towards her front door.
She stopped the car, and with shaking hands took the keys from the ignition, but didn’t want to get out of the car. It was a nightmare, she’d wake up in a moment. It was all just a dream. She forced herself to open the car door and get out. She reached in her handbag for her phone. The front door was open. This time she would have to call the police. He was actually here and in her house. The dogs! Where were the dogs? And Trevor? Had he gone out with both dogs and left the house? Slowly she crunched on the gravel towards the front door, phone in hand.
‘Hey Stephanie,’ she heard Trevor’s voice.
Relief flooded through her. He was here, she was safe. The dogs ambled towards her and she walked round to the back of the van. The doors were open.
‘I’m just moving a few of my things in. Thought it would be easier than having to keep going back all the time.’
Stephanie stared at him for a few moments trying to understand what was going on. Slowly she woke up.
‘Whose van is this?’
He smiled.
‘Mine, of course.’
‘You! It was you all the time?’
He smiled and continued to take things from the van, placing them on the drive.
‘Why? How?’ She asked, staring at him as he calmly carried a suitcase into the house. Watching the dogs trot into the house after him, their tails wagging, her legs felt weak, she was not sure she could continue to stand. An image of being in his flat, his very empty flat, came back to her. She remembered getting dressed in the bathroom and realizing her handbag was not with her clothes. He was asleep when she crept back in to get it, and lying on the floor where her clothes had been before she picked them up was her bag. Stephanie put her hand out, holding on to the side of the van.
She felt the hand on her waist.
‘Come on,’ his voice close to her ear, ‘I’ll make you a cup of tea, I know you’d rather have a drink, but you drink a little too much I think. It’s not good for you. And there won’t be anymore going out at night, now will there.’ His hand manoeuvred her round to face the open front door, and leading her in he whistled for the dogs before kicking the door shut behind them.
.
W
hile Sarah sat waiting for Dr. Short to see her, her mind drifted over the last three months and all that had happened. She finally started to feel better and settle into a routine despite the sickness.
The house was looking good. After dusting down the dining room and decorating the rest of the house, she decided to leave her mother’s room just as it was; keeping the door and curtains closed. She didn’t want anything to disturb her mother now. She had found a new comfort in going into her mother’s room to let her know what was happening. She would tell her all about her day, what she had been doing, just as she always wanted to know. It was strange how now she didn’t need to lie, she could tell her mother anything, she had finally got the mother she always wanted.
And telling Stephanie, what a release that had been. She felt as light as a feather walking out of her office; confession was good for the soul. The magazines had at least got that right. There had been a few police interviews and she was surprised how easy it all was, especially with that nice kind doctor. He was so gentle and had a beautiful smile. His statement to the police corroborated everything she said, and he had the photos to prove it; he helped her give her statement, filling in the gaps when she seemed reluctant to say what happened. It was a pleasant feeling to be believed. Her mother had taught her well.
She thought about asking the doctor round for a meal. That would be nice. He obviously liked her, otherwise he wouldn’t have done so much for her. There was something between them; the magazines called it chemistry. She felt it when he took her hand, encouraging her to speak whenever she faltered. If he had not been there she wasn’t sure if she could have carried on with it. But once the police discovered someone was blackmailing Robert, they hardly needed her, and wouldn’t tell her anything about it. It was all over the papers, but her name was not allowed to be printed. The police advised her not to tell anyone except her own doctor.
The door bell rings and she walks slowly to the door in her new cotton dress. The pale green suits her hair, she knows because the shop lady told her. She reaches the door and opens it. The doctor stands smiling at her, he has a bouquet of red roses in his arms. So big she can hardly see his face. He hands them to her, and she asks him in. He follows her into the lounge and she offers him a drink. He asks for a glass of red wine and she goes to the kitchen to get it for him. When she returns holding two glasses, he is seated on the settee, still smiling. She hands him a glass and he stands to be beside her, then holds his glass out and says, To Sarah, you look beautiful tonight, and the food smells delicious.’ She sips her drink. ‘I hope you like it, it’s stew, one of my favourites.’
Yes, she would phone him later. After she had sorted out this sickness problem. He had been insistent about her having his phone number. He definitely liked her. She would call him when she could eat again.
She couldn’t understand what was wrong with her. When it started she thought it must be something she eaten, but when it didn’t go away, she thought maybe it was the paint fumes? A month ago when she had mentioned it to Dr. Short, he suggested it must be stress; her mother’s death, the inquest and the court case. He explained how it was a lot for one person to deal with and was bound to cause a reaction of some sort for her. She felt so tired.
She let her eyes close and an image of last week’s funeral came into her mind. Yes, maybe it was all stress, she thought.
She was so disappointed and not a little surprised, the funeral was nothing like her vision.
She cried.
Tears sprung to her eyes and flowed down her face as four strangers carried her mother in. Wiping the snot from her nose with the back of her hand, she could smell the new wood of the casket, the cheapest the funeral directors had. She’d wanted a cardboard coffin, but this particular firm didn’t stock them and she really couldn’t be bothered to phone around. It had all taken so much longer than she expected, she just wanted it done as quickly as possible. She imagined her mother’s body laying in it as they slow marched past her to place the casket on the trolley before the incinerator.
She wondered what clothes they had chosen for her. The funeral director had been kind and gentle with her when he came round, asking her to choose some clothes, suggesting the night dress may not be appropriate attire to rest in. Sarah thought it was entirely appropriate, but refrained from saying anything. Assuming she was too devastated to cope, in the end the funeral director went into her mother’s bedroom and chose the clothes she would burn in.
Dr. Short stood beside her, patting her arm as the tears flowed. He didn’t actually say ‘there, there,’ but she could hear it in her head as his eyes looked at her shoes refusing to look up at her face.
There were no hymns and only a short eulogy. The priest said a few words, mostly repeated from what she had told him and while he spoke she counted the bricks, working out how high the building was. The doctor must have spoken to him as well, because the priest added in some family stuff she had definitely not mentioned, especially about her grandmother. It was at the mention of her grandmother, she stopped counting and cried again.
Grandma had been kind to Sarah, when she was allowed to see her. Her mother prevented most contact between them but had not been able to stop her grandma giving Sarah Christmas presents and birthday presents while she was alive. The only ones she got. Her mother even managed to turn that to her advantage by trying to claim they were from her. Sarah knew though. She always knew. And when her grandma died, so did the presents.