Читать книгу Her Turn to Cry: A gripping psychological thriller with twists you won’t see coming - Chris Curran - Страница 8

The envelope sat heavy on Joycie’s lap. The sun made the car too warm, and she untied her scarf and slipped off her coat, letting the envelope slide down beside the door. Marcus glanced over.

‘Not going to open that then?’

‘It won’t be anything much.’ It felt like jewellery, nothing to worry about, but she wished Deirdre had forgotten it. Wished she hadn’t gone to the funeral at all.

‘So that was Sid Sergeant, eh? He’s looking a lot older than his pictures. And the wife, Cora, you never mentioned her,’ Marcus said.

They stopped at traffic lights near a park, and she watched some ducks flapping about on a big pond. Three green drakes chasing a brown female. The female was trying to fly away, feet kicking the top of the water, but the males were all around her and she couldn’t get into the air. She skimmed to an island in the middle and scrambled up the bank.

Marcus touched her shoulder. ‘You all right?’

‘I should never have gone. Irene wouldn’t have minded.’

‘You didn’t look too pleased to see Sid.’

It’s all in the past. It’s all in the past. She pulled the envelope onto her lap and tore it open. A jet bracelet and two necklaces, one a double string of pearls and the other glittering with red stones. They were things Irene wore all the time. Joycie held them to her cheek, hearing Irene’s fruity chuckle so clearly she had to swallow down a sob. Marcus took his hand from the wheel and rubbed her knee.

‘Ah, that’s nice. Let’s take some pictures of you wearing them. You can send them to Deirdre.’

But Joycie was looking at the smaller envelope that had fallen out last of all, her breath catching in her throat. In place of an address was a line of writing: Dear Joycie, Irene asked me to get this to you. All my love Deirdre.

Marcus glanced over. ‘What’s that?’

‘A note from Irene, I suppose.’

‘Aren’t you going to read it?’

She pushed it back with the jewellery into the large envelope. ‘When we get home.’

***

Back at the house she ran up to her room. ‘I’m going to get changed.’ Closed the door and emptied the big envelope onto her dressing table. Then she took the smaller envelope over to the window and ripped it open. But instead of reading it she stood with the note pressed against her chest.

She loved this house. It was tall and thin with three floors. Her bedroom overlooked a long green garden, a bit unkempt but that was the way she and Marcus loved it. Today it was full of daffodils, clumps of late snowdrops lighting up the darker corners. The trees were covered with a haze of palest green buds.

A deep breath as she unfolded the note.

My darling Joycie,

We haven’t seen much of each other lately and I don’t blame you for wanting to put the past and everyone connected with it behind you. Of course I have been following your progress in the papers and your photographer friend seems to be a nice young man. So I really hope you have found happiness with him.

In that case you might decide to ignore this letter. However I can’t go to my grave without saying this. The last time we met I told you someone had dropped off an address at the theatre for me with a note asking me to get it to Mary Todd’s daughter. It was obviously someone who knew Mary and could maybe help you find out what really happened to your mum. You said you weren’t interested because she deserted you, but you know how fond I was of Mary and I never believed she meant to leave you forever. I feel so bad that I didn’t try to find her myself or make more effort to persuade you to look for her.

Anyway here’s the name and address. Susan Lomax, 44 Trenton St. Manchester. It’s up to you, but I really hope you decide to look into it.

I’m sorry I can’t leave you anything more than a few old paste jewels, but I remember how you liked dressing up in them when you were little. So I thought you might be glad to have them.

With fondest love,

Irene

The writing was wobbly, clearly written when Irene was ill, and her signature tailed off as if she was unable to keep hold of the pen. Joycie held the scrap of paper to her lips as hot tears welled from deep inside.

I never believed she meant to leave you forever. That was what Irene had always said and for the first few years Joycie had believed it too. But her mother didn’t come back, didn’t try to get in contact, and Joycie told herself she’d stopped wanting her to. Irene hadn’t seen the person who left the address so it could have been anyone and even if it was her mum or someone close to her, Joycie had decided it was too late. She didn’t want to listen to a load of excuses. But Irene had been so good to her and this was the only thing she’d ever asked from Joycie.

Your photographer friend seems to be a nice young man. I really hope you have found happiness with him. Irene was right about Marcus. He was more than nice and life without him was unthinkable. But as for finding happiness, well that was something else.

Marcus had declared his love for her not long after they met, but she said it was too soon. Still he asked her to move in. Said he couldn’t bear rattling around here on his own. It made sense too with them working together all the time and she needn’t worry, she could have her own room.

The house belonged to his parents, but they’d decamped to the country when his dad retired from the civil service. It always amazed her that people could own two houses. Her early life had been lived in theatrical lodgings in the towns and seaside resorts where Sid and her dad performed. A bedroom for her mum and dad, one for her, and another room for sitting and eating, with a tiny kitchenette if they were lucky. The bathroom was usually down the hall, shared with the rest of the tenants, and sometimes the toilet was outside. It was wonderful to have a whole house just for her and Marcus.

She knew he hoped for more, but decided not to think about that. Finally she told him she had a problem with closeness and it wasn’t fair to ask him to wait for her. What she didn’t say was how much she dreaded him finding another girl he felt serious about and who could love him properly. ‘I do love you, Marcus, but not in that way,’ she had told him. He must have guessed by then that the idea of loving anyone in that way made her skin crawl.

She had never admitted, because it wasn’t fair to lead him on, that sometimes when he touched her the shivers that went through her felt wonderful.