Don’t Tell Mummy: A True Story of the Ultimate Betrayal. Toni Maguire

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ brought a smile to my face. On Mother’s Days and birthdays I’d sent her baskets of tiny plants. She showed me how, mixed with others grown from cuttings, she’d replanted them into her eclectic collection of containers, ranging from chimneys and old kitchen sinks to terracotta pots and a drinking trough, creating an explosion of colour around the patio she had designed.

      She’d named all the shrubs for me that day too.

      ‘This is my favourite, it’s called Buddleia,’ she informed me. ‘But I like its nickname better, “the butterfly bush”.’

      As if to give credence to its more popular name a cloud of butterflies hovered over the deep purple shrub, their wings shimmering in the afternoon sunlight. Another area gave off a heady aroma of roses, their petals shading from clotted-cream perfection to a dark rich pink. Another area contained her beloved lilies. In another wild flowers blended with the cultivated ones.

      ‘If they look pretty they’re not weeds,’ she laughed.

      There were pebbled walkways, with arches made of wire, where jasmine and honeysuckle had been lovingly trained to grow and add their perfumes to the air. At the base of one nestled a collection of gnomes.

      ‘My little bit of nonsense,’ she called them.

      She looked so happy and serene that day that it became a memory I stored in my mental photograph album. One I could take out at will and enjoy.

      The next day I drove to a garden centre, bought her a small summer house to protect her from the elements and had it delivered.

      ‘So that whatever the weather you can always enjoy your garden,’ I told her, knowing she wouldn’t have more than one more summer to enjoy it.

      She had created an English country garden in Northern Ireland, a country she had never taken as her own, always feeling herself a stranger there.

      I took that memory out then and felt such sorrow for her, my lonely mother who had created her life out of imagination then turned it into her reality.

      There was a side of me that was enjoying being with her in the hospice, despite her frailty. Finally I was able to spend some time alone with her, time I knew was disappearing minute by minute.

      That evening I helped put her to bed, brushed her hair back from her brow and kissed her forehead.

      ‘I’ll be sleeping in the chair beside your bed,’ I told her. ‘I’ll never be very far away.’

      After the nurse had given out sleeping pills, I sat holding her hand, which had grown small and fragile. The skin, streaked with blue veins, seemed almost translucent. Someone had given her a manicure, shaping and polishing the nails into ovals and colouring them a pale pink, unlike the soil-stained ones I remembered from my last visit.

      Once she’d fallen asleep I took one of my Mavis Cheek novels and went to the lounge. I felt an overwhelming sorrow that the mother I’d once loved so much was dying; sorrow that for all the harm, for all the things she’d done, she’d never been happy. I grieved for the relationship with her I’d always wanted but which, apart from my very early childhood, I had been denied.

      The book remained unread that night as control over my memories deserted me. My mind strayed back to those early days I spent with her, days when I’d felt cherished, protected and loved, days that in my memory were always sunny – until the blackness came.

      Antoinette, the child, came to me in that space that twilight creates, when dreams have deserted us but consciousness still slumbers. Dressed in shades of grey, her ivory-white face gleamed up at me from under her ebony fringe.

      ‘Toni,’ she whispered, ‘why did you never allow me to grow up?’

      ‘Leave me in peace,’ I silently cried, summoning all my mental energy to push her away.

      My eyes opened and now only dust motes danced in the air, but when I placed my hands on my face they came away damp from a child’s tears on adult cheeks.

      ‘Toni,’ she whispered, ‘let me tell you the story of what really happened. It’s time now.’

      I knew that Antoinette was awake now and I would not be able to force her to resume the years of slumber that once I had banished her to. Closing my eyes I allowed her whisper to filter into my mind as she started our story.

       Chapter Two

      My first memories were of my mother and me living in a house with a garden in Kent, where my diminutive grandmother was a frequent and welcome visitor. Upon hearing her voice calling ‘Antoinette, where are you?’ as she pretended to search for me, I would stop whatever I was doing, rush to greet her and to be hugged in return

      She had a fragrance particular to her, a mixture of face powder and lily of the valley, a scent that in the future always evoked memories of her. I would feel a glow of love between us as I breathed in that aroma.

      On sunny days she would suggest leisurely walks towards the main street of Tenterdon, where we would make our way to one of the oak-beamed tearooms. My play clothes would have been exchanged for a clean dress, my face and hands wiped and my hair brushed before I was considered presentable enough for such outings.

      Once she had placed high heels on her feet and picked up a matching handbag, my mother would apply bright red lipstick, fluff powder on her nose and the three of us would set off.

      A black-and-white-uniformed waitress would show us to our table, where my grandmother would proceed to order afternoon tea. Scones with jam and cream, followed by individual pink and yellow iced cakes, were washed down by diluted squash for me, tea for the two adults.

      My mother, wearing a square-necked dress, her head bare, would chatter companionably to my grandmother, who, always, regardless of the weather, hid her still red-gold hair under a hat. Ladies of a similar age, dressed in printed dresses topped by straw boaters or pillboxes, would greet her with smiles, remark how much I was growing and comment on the weather, a subject which, to my child’s ears, grown-ups always showed an inordinate interest in.

      Another special outing was when we visited Mrs Trivett, an old school friend of my grandmother’s who, to my delight, made homemade sweets in her tiny black and white cottage. Her postage-stamp-sized garden was filled with deep raspberry pink hydrangeas, whose big lacy heads hung over the low brick wall and nodded in the breeze. To my fascination two plump gnomes sat underneath one bush, fishing rods in their hands. Perhaps it was Mrs Trivett who sowed the seeds of my mother’s affection for these garden ornaments in later life.

      My grandmother would knock the freshly polished knocker against the black door and Mrs Trivett, wrapped in a voluminous apron, would open it, releasing the warm scent from the bubbling concoction, which later would become the sweets I loved.

      Taking me into her kitchen she would show me how they were made. Fat strips of the sugary-smelling black and white mixture were placed over a hook by the door, then squeezed and pulled until they trebled in length. Only when their length had increased to Mrs Trivett’s satisfaction were they taken down, some to be cut into small squares, others into larger pieces which were rolled into humbugs.

      Engrossed, I would watch, my cheeks bulging with some of her samples, as I rolled the one she had told me I could ‘test’ around my tongue. When the СКАЧАТЬ