I Know Your Secret - Ruth Heald Page 0,57

she replies.

There’s a silence as she sips her drink.

‘Do you want anything to eat? I could make you a sandwich, if you like?’

‘No, thank you. We stopped for lunch on the way.’

‘So what is it you do in Sweden?’

She looks at me uncertainly. ‘Oh, this and that. I keep myself busy.’

‘Right,’ Peter says, leaning forward, waiting for more.

My mother stares vacantly into the distance, as if looking for inspiration for conversation. I see her glance at our wedding photo on the mantelpiece.

‘So, how did you two meet?’ she asks.

‘At work. About six years ago.’

‘Where did you get married?’

I relax as her questions about our wedding come thick and fast. I answer, telling her about the registry office, my dress, the small reception we had at the pub. I pick our wedding album off the shelf and take her through the pictures, trying to imagine that she was there, and that this is just an ordinary mother-and-daughter moment, remembering the day together. As she exclaims over my dress, I close my eyes and pretend things are normal.

Peter suggests he goes to the shops to get us something for dinner and I turn to Mum to ask her what she wants. She used to love Indian food. We’d get takeaway on Friday nights when Dad was away. He used to be away a lot at weekends, doing up the flat my parents owned in central London that was supposed to be mine once I left university.

‘You can have anything you like,’ I say to Mum, thinking of how limited her diet must have been in prison. But my words sound patronising.

‘No decent food in Sweden, then?’ Peter quips.

Mum smiles thinly. ‘Not as much as you would think. Not much lamb. Do you think you could get lamb chops for dinner? I’ve really missed them.’

Peter nods. ‘Sure. I’ll get a nice bottle of wine too.’

After he’s gone I get some fresh towels out of the cupboard, handing them to her so she can shower. She stands for a moment, just breathing in their scent, feeling how soft they are. ‘These are lovely,’ she says, and it brings home just how much she went without in prison. I feel a wave of pity.

‘I’ll get your bag from the car and leave it in your room,’ I say, pointing to the spare bedroom with its crisp white sheets on the bed and view over the garden.

She nods, going into the bathroom with the towels and locking the door. I hear her turn the water on immediately. She seems desperate to be on her own. I feel a sense of unease at the pit of my stomach. I’ve missed her so much over the years, but now she’s back it feels overwhelming.

When my mother comes down half an hour later, I notice her hair is still wet and unbrushed. ‘Do you want to borrow a hairbrush?’ I ask.

‘Yes, please. I’m sorry to have to ask you for everything. I’ll get myself sorted soon. I’ll find myself a job, start paying rent.’

‘No rush,’ I say awkwardly, aware of our role reversal. I’ve missed her so much, but now it feels more like I’m the mother to her.

We go upstairs together and Mum brushes her hair in front of my mirror.

‘I remember doing your hair when you were little,’ Mum says wistfully. I think back, recalling the feel of the brush as she pulled it through my tangled hair. Once, when she wasn’t looking, I’d pretended to be grown up, putting on her lipstick and shoes. I feel nostalgic, longing for the past, when everything was simple.

‘Do you think you’ll have children? With Peter?’ she asks suddenly.

I smile to myself, thinking of the life already growing inside me, cells multiplying, limbs forming. ‘I hope so.’

‘I found it difficult sometimes. Looking after you could be very wearing, particularly when you were a teenager and we clashed all the time. I’m sorry if I lost my temper occasionally. I always loved you, though. With all my heart.’

‘It’s OK,’ I say, fighting back tears. ‘I love you too.’ I never imagined she’d apologise for the way she was back then, and my heart aches with gratitude. We should have had this conversation years ago. But our relationship was stunted by her time in prison.

‘Children can test your patience, that’s all. I suppose you’ll discover that for yourself eventually.’

‘I’m sure I’ll be fine, Mum.’

She stands, handing me back the hairbrush. ‘Just make sure you’ve sorted yourself out first,’ she says. ‘You need